GIFT  OF 
A.   F.    Morrison 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


POEMS,  PLAYS  AND 
ESSAYS  OF  OLIVER 
GOLDSMITH  .  .  .  . 


NEW  YORK,  THOMAS  Y. 
CROWELL  &  COMPANY,  K 
^   PUBLISHERS   ej* 

5^^5(5 


POEMS,  PLAYS,  AND  ESSAYS 


BT 

OLIVER    GOLDSMITH,   M.B. 


WITH  A 

CRITICAL  DISSERTATION  ON  HIS  POETRY 

BY  JOHN  AIKIN,  M.D. 

AND   AX 

.      INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY 

BY  HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN,  ESQ. 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL   &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


GIFT  OF 


CONTENTS. 


introductory  Essay  by  Henry  T.  Tuckerman  .    .    .  *iS 

Dr.  Aikin's  Memoirs  of  the  Author 7 

Remarks  on  the  Poetry  of  Dr.  Goldsmith,  by  Dr. 

Aikin            38 

Verses  on  the  death  of  Dr.  Goldsmith 65 

POEMS. 

The  Traveller ;  or,  a  Prospect  of  Society    ....  66 

The  Deserted  Village ,  84 

The  Hermit,  a  Ballad 101 

The  Haunch  of  Venison,  to  Lord  Clare 110 

Retaliation ....•••  115 

lostscript 122 

The  Double  Transformation,  a  Tale 123 

The  Gift :  to  Iris,  in  Bow-street,  Covent  Garden     .  127 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog 128 

The  Logicians  Refuted :  Imitation  of   Dean  Swift  .  129 

A  new  Simile:  in  the  Manner  of  Swift .     ,    .    ,  131 


M10355Q 


fr  CONTENTS. 

Description  of  an  Author's  Bed-Chamber  ....  133 
A  Prologue  by  the  Poet  Laberius,  whom  Caesar 

forced  upon  the  Stage 134 

An  Elegy  on  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize 135 

On  a  beautiful  Youth  struck  blind  by  Lightning  .  136 

The  Clown's  Reply 137 

Epitaph  on  Dr.  Parnell  . 137 

Epitaph  on  Edward  Purdon 137 

Stanzas  on  the  taking  of  Quebec  . 138 

Stanzas  on  Women 138 

Sonnet 139 

Songs 139 

Song,  intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  Comedy 

of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer 140 

Prologue  to  Zobeide,  a  Tragedy 140 

Epilogue  to  the  Comedy  of  the  Sisters 142 

Epilogue  spoken  by  Mrs.  Bulkley  and  Miss  Catley  .  144 

Epilogue  intended  for  Mrs.  Bulkley  ......  147 

Epilogue  spoken  by  Mr.  Lee  Lewes 149 

Threnodia  Augustalis •  151 

The  Captivity :  an  Oratorio 162 

Lines  attributed  to  Dr.  Goldsmith  ......  17fl 


PLAYS. 

The  Good-Natured  Man,  a  Comedy 177 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  or  the  Mistakes  of  a  Night .    269 


CONTENTS.  f 

ESSAYS. 

Introduction 867 

Love  and  Friendship,  or  the  Story  of  Alcander  and 

Septimius,  taken  from  a  Byzantine  Historian  .    .  371 1 

On  Happiness  of  Temper . .    .  375  * 

Description  of  various  Clubs     ........  380  ' 

On  the  Policy  of  concealing  our  Wants,  or  Poverty  .  390 

On  Generosity  and  Justice 397 

Qn  the  Education  of  Youth 401 

On  the  Versatility  of  Popular  Favor ......  414 

Specimen  of  a  Magazine  in  Miniature    .    •    .    •    .  418 

Rules  for  Behavior 421  5 

Rules  for  Raising  the  Devil 422  J 

Beau  Tibbs :  a  Character  ..........  423 e 

Beau  Tibbs  —  continued  ...»*..«..  426 

On  the  Irresolution  of  Youth    ........  431 

On  Mad  Dogs 435 , 

On  the  Increased  Love  of  Life  with  Age    ....  440  ' 
Ladies'  Passion  for  levelling  Distinction  of  Dress    .  443 
Asem,  an  Eastern  Tale ;  or,  the  Wisdom  of  Provi- 
dence in  the  moral  Government  of  the  World  .  449 
On  the  English  Clergy,  and  Popular  Preachers   .    .  458 
On  the  Advantages  to  be  derived  from  sending  a 

judicious  Traveller  into  Asia 464 

Reverie  at  the  Boar's-head  Tavern,  in  Eastcheap     .  469  * 

On  Quack  Doctors 486* 

Adventures  of  a  Strolling  Player 489 


Tl  CONTENTS. 

Rules  to  be  observed  at  a  Russian  Assembly  .    .    .  500 

The  Genius  of  Love,  an  Eastern  Apologue     .    .    .  502 

Distresses  of  an  English  disabled  Sold;er  ....  507 

On  the  Frailty  of  Man ....  514 

On  Friendship 516 

Folly  of  attempting  to  learn  Wisdom  in  Retirement .  520 
Letter  by  a  Common-Council-man  at  the  time  of  the 

Coronation 524 

A  second  Letter  describing  the  Coronation      .    .    .  527 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY.1 

BY  HENRY  T.   TUCKEBMAN. 


IT  is  sometimes  both  pleasing  and  profitable  to  recur  tfl 
those  characters  in  literary  history  who  are  emphatically 
favorites,  and  to  glance  at  the  causes  of  their  popularity. 
Such  speculations  frequently  afford  more  important  results 
than  the  mere  gratification  of  curiosity.  They  often  lead  to 
a  clearer  perception  of  the  true  tests  of  genius,  and  indicate 
the  principle  and  methods  by  which  the  common  mind  may 
be  most  successfully  addressed.  The  advantage  of  such  ret- 
rospective inquiries  is  still  greater  at  a  period  like  the  pres- 
ent, when  there  is  such  an  obvious  tendency  to  innovate 
upon  some  of  the  best  established  theories  of  taste;  when 
the  passion  for  novelty  seeks  for  such  unlicensed  indul- 
gence, and  invention  seems  to  exhaust  itself  rather  upon 
forms  than  ideas.  In  literature,  especially,  we  appear  to  be 
daily  losing  one  of  the  most  valuable  elements  —  simplicity. 
The  prevalent  taste  is  no  longer  gratified  with  the  natural. 
There  is  a  growing  appetite  for  what  is  startling  and  pecu- 
liar, seldom  accompanied  by  any  discriminating  demand  for 
the  true  and  original ;  and  yet  experience  has  fully  proved 
that  these  last  are  the  only  permanent  elements  of  litera- 
ture; and  no  healthy  mind,  cognizant  of  its  own  histor>« 

*  From  "  Thouf  bU  on  tb*  PoeU,"  by  H.  T.  T. 


Till  INTRODUCTORY   E88AT. 

is  unaware  that  the  only  intellectual  aliment  which  never 
palls  upon  the  taste  is  that  which  is  least  indebted  to  extra- 
neous accompaniments  for  its  relish. 

It  is  ever  refreshing  to  revert  to  first  principles.  The 
study  of  the  old  masters  may  sometimes  make  the  modern 
artist  despair  of  his  own  efforts ;  but  if  he  have  the  genius 
to  discover  and  follow  out  the  great  principle  upon  which 
they  wrought,  he  will  not  have  contemplated  their  works  in 
vain.  He  will  have  learned  that  devotion  to  Nature  is  the 
grand  secret  of  progress  in  Art,  and  that  the  success  of  her 
votaries  depends  upon  the  singleness,  constancy,  and  intelli- 
gence of  their  worship.  If  there  is  not  enthusiasm  enough 
to  kindle  this  flame  in  its  purity,  nor  energy  sufficient  to 
fulfil  the  sacrifice  required  at  that  high  altar,  let  not  the 
young  aspirant  enter  the  priesthood  of  art.  When  the 
immortal  painter  of  the  Transfiguration  was  asked  to  em- 
body his  ideal  of  perfect  female  loveliness  he  replied  — 
there  would  still  be  an  infinite  distance  between  his  work 
and  the  existent  original.  In  this  profound  and  vivid  per- 
ception of  the  beautiful  in  nature,  we  perceive  the  origin  of 
those  lovely  creations  which,  for  more  than  three  hundred 
years,  have  delighted  mankind.  And  it  is  equally  true  of 
the  pen  as  the  pencil  that  what  is  drawn  from  life  and  the 
heart  alone  bears  the  impress  of  immortality.  Yet  the 
practical  faith  of  our  day  is  diametrically  opposed  to  thii 
truth.  The  writers  of  our  times  are  constantly  making  use 
of  artificial  enginery.  They  have,  for  the  most  part,  aban- 
doned the  integrity  of  purpose  and  earnest  directness  of 
earlier  epochs.  There  is  less  faith,  as  we  before  said,  in  the 
natural;  and  when  we  turn  from  the  midst  of  the  forced 
and  hot-bed  products  of  the  modern  school,  and  ramble  in 
the  garden  of  old  English  literature,  a  cool  and  calm  re- 


GOLDSMITH.  11 

freshment  invigorates  the  spirit,  like  the  first  breath  of 
mountain  air  to  the  weary  wayfarer. 

There  are  few  writers  of  the  period  more  generally  be- 
loved than  Dr.  Goldsmith.  Of  his  contemporaries  Burke 
excelled  him  in  splendor  of  diction,  and  Johnson  in  depth 
of  thought.  The  former  continues  to  enjoy  a  larger  share 
of  admiration,  and  the  latter  of  respect,  but  the  labors  of 
their  less  pretending  companion  have  secured  him  a  far 
richer  heritage  of  love.  Of  all  posthumous  tributes  to 
genius  this  seems  the  most  truly  desirable.  It  recognizes 
the  man  as  well  as  the  author.  It  is  called  forth  by  more 
interesting  characteristics  than  talent.  It  bespeaks  a  greater 
than  ordinary  association  of  the  individual  with  his  works, 
and,  looking  beyond  the  mere  embodiment  of  his  intellect, 
it  gives  assurance  of  an  attractiveness  in  his  character 
which  has  made  itself  felt  even  through  the  artificial  me- 
dium of  writing.  The  authors  are  comparatively  few  who 
have  awakened  this  feeling  of  personal  interest  and  affec- 
tion. It  is  common,  indeed,  for  any  writer  of  genius  to  in- 
spire emotions  of  gratitude  in  the  breasts  of  those  suscepti- 
ble to  the  charm,  but  the  instances  are  rare  in  which  this 
sentiment  is  vivified  and  elevated  into  positive  affection. 
And  few,  I  apprehend,  among  the  wits  and  poets  of  old 
England,  have  more  widely  awakened  it  than  Oliver  Gold- 
smith. I  have  said  this  kind  of  literary  fame  was  eminently 
desirable.  There  is,  indeed,  something  inexpressibly  touch- 
ing in  the  thought  of  one  of  the  gifted  of  our  race  attaching 
to  himself  countless  hearts  by  the  force  of  a  charm  woven 
in  by-gone  years,  when  environed  by  neglect  and  discourage- 
ment. Though  a  late  it  is  a  beautiful  recompense,  tran- 
scending mere  critical  approbation,  or  even  the  reverence 
men  offer  to  the  monuments  of  mind.  We  can  conceive  of 


C  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 

no  motive  to  effort  which  can  be  presented  to  a  man  of  true 
feeling  like  the  hope  of  winning  the  love  of  his  kind  by  the 
faithful  exhibition  of  himself.  It  is  a  nobler  purpose  than 
that  entertained  by  heartless  ambition.  The  appeal  is  not 
merely  to  the  judgment  and  imagination,  it  is  to  the  univer- 
sal heart  of  mankind.  Such  fame  is  emphatically  rich.  It 
gains  its  possessor  warm  friends  instead  of  mere  admirers. 
To  establish  such  an  inheritance  in  the  breast  of  humanity 
were  indeed  worthy  of  sacrifice  and  toil.  It  is  an  offering 
not  only  to  intellectual  but  to  moral  graces,  and  its  posses- 
sion argues  for  the  sons  of  fame  holier  qualities  than  genius 
itself.  It  eloquently  indicates  that  its  subject  is  not  only 
capable  of  interesting  the  general  mind  by  the  power  of  his 
creations,  but  of  captivating  the  feelings  by  the  earnest 
beauty  of  his  nature.  Of  all  oblations,  therefore,  we  deem  it 
the  most  valuable.  It  is  this  sentiment  with  which  the  lovers 
of  painting  regard  the  truest  interpreters  of  the  art.  They 
wonder  at  Michael  Angelo  but  love  Raphael,  and  gaze  upon 
the  pensively  beautiful  delineation  he  has  left  us  of  himself 
with  the  regretful  tenderness  with  which  we  look  upon  the 
portrait  of  a  departed  friend.  The  devotees  of  music,  too, 
dwell  with  glad  astonishment  upon  the  celebrated  operas  of 
Rosini  and  some  of  the  German  composers,  but  the  memory 
of  Bellini  is  absolutely  loved.  It  is  well  remarked  by  one  of 
Goldsmith's  biographers,  that  the  very  fact  of  his  being 
spoken  of  always  with  the  epithet  "poor"  attached  to  his 
name  is  sufficient  evidence  of  the  kind  of  fame  he  enjoys. 
Whence,  then,  the  peculiar  attraction  of  his  writings,  and 
wherein  consists  the  spell  which  has  so  long  rendered  his 
works  the  favorites  of  so  many  and  such  a  variety  of 
readers  ? 
The  primary  and  mil  pervading  charm  of  Goldsmith  it  hia 


GOLDSMITH.   -  XI 

truth.  It  is  interesting  to  trace  this  delightful  characteristic, 
as  it  exhibits  itself  not  less  in  his  life  than  in  his  writings. 
We  see  it  displayed  in  the  remarkable  frankness  which  dis- 
tinguished his  intercourse  with  others,  and  in  that  winning 
simplicity  which  so  frequently  excited  the  contemptuous 
laugh  of  the  worldly-wise,  but  failed  not  to  draw  towards  him 
the  more  valuable  sympathies  of  less  perverted  natures.  All 
who  have  sketched  his  biography  unite  in  declaring  that  he 
could  not  dissemble  ;  and  we  have  a  good  illustration  of  his 
want  of  tact  in  concealing  a  defect  in  the  story  which  is  re- 
lated of  him  at  the  time  of  his  unsuccessful  attempt  at  medi- 
cal practice  in  Edinburgh  —  when,  his  only  velvet  coat  being 
deformed  by  a  huge  patch  on  the  right  breast,  he  was  accus- 
tomed, while  in  the  drawing-room,  to  cover  it  in  the  most 
awkward  manner  with  his  hat.  It  was  his  natural  truthful- 
ness which  led  him  to  so  candid  and  habitual  a  confession  of 
his  faults.  Johnson  ridiculed  him  for  so  freely  describing 
the  state  of  his  feelings,  during  the  representation  of  his  first 
play;  and,  throughout  his  life,  the  perfect  honesty  of  his 
spirit  made  him  the  subject  of  innumerable  practical  jokes. 
Credulity  is  perhaps  a  weakness  almost  inseparable  from 
eminently  truthful  characters.  Yet,  if  such  is  the  case,  it 
does  not  in  the  least  diminish  our  faith  in  the  superiority  and 
yalue  of  such  characters.  Waiving  all  moral  considerations, 
we  believe  it  can  be  demonstrated  that  truth  is  one  of  the 
most  essential  elements  of  real  greatness  and  surest  means 
of  eminent  success.  Management,  chicanery,  and  cunning 
may  advance  men  in  the  career  of  the  world ;  it  may  forward 
the  views  of  the  politician  and  clear  the  way  of  the  diploma- 
list  ;  but  when  humanity  is  to  be  addressed  in  the  univer&al 
language  of  genius ;  when,  through  the  medium  of  literature 
tad  art,  man  essays  to  reach  the  heart  of  his  kind,  the  more 


Xll  INTRODUCTORY   ESSAY. 

sincere  the  appeal  the  surer  its  effect ;  the  more  direct  the 
call  the  deeper  the  response.  In  a  word,  the  more  largely 
truth  enters  into  a  work,  the  more  certain  the  fame  of  its 
author.  But  a  few  months  since  I  saw  the  Parisian  populace 
crowding  around  the  church  where  the  remains  of  Talleyrand 
lay  in  state,  but  the  fever  of  curiosity  alone  gleamed  from 
their  eyes,  undimmed  by  tears.  When  Goldsmith  died,  Rey- 
nolds, then  in  the  full  tide  of  success,  threw  his  pencil  aside 
in  sorrow,  and  Burke  turned  from  the  fast-brightening  vision 
of  renown  to  weep. 

Truth  is  an  endearing  quality.  None  are  so  beloved  as  the 
ingenuous.  We  feel  in  approaching  them  that  the  look  of 
welcome  is  unaffected  —  that  the  friendly  grasp  is  from  the 
heart,  and  we  regret  their  departure  as  an  actual  loss.  And 
not  less  winningly  shines  this  high  and  sacred  principle 
through  the  labors  of  genius.  It  immortalizes  history  —  it  if 
the  true  origin  of  eloquence,  and  constitutes  the  living  charm 
of  poetry.  When  Goldsmith  penned  the  lines  — 

"To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art," 

he  furnished  the  key  to  his  peculiar  genius,  and  recorded  the 
secret  which  has  embalmed  his  memory.  It  was  the  clear- 
ness of  his  own  soul  which  reflected  so  truly  the.  imagery  of 
life.  He  did  but  transcribe  the  unadorned  convictions  that 
glowed  in  his  mind,  and  faithfully  traced  the  pictures  which 
nature  threw  upon  the  mirror  of  his  fancy.  Hence  the  un- 
rivalled excellence  of  his  descriptions.  Rural  life  has  never 
found  a  sweeter  eulogist.  To  countless  memories  have  hi* 
Tillage  landscapes  risen  pleasantly  when  the  "  murmur  "  rose 
at  eventide.  Where  do  we  not  meet  with  a  kind-hearted  phi- 
losopher delighting  in  some  speculative  hobby,  equally  deaf 


GOLDSMITH.  xiil 

•8  the  good  Vicar's  theory  of  Monogamy  ?  The  vigils  of 
many  an  ardent  student  have  been  beguiled  by  his  portraiture 
of  a  country  clergyman  —  brightening  the  dim  vista  of  futu- 
rity as  his  own  ideal  of  destiny ;  and  who  has  not,  at  times, 
caught  the  very  solace  of  retirement  from  his  sweet  apos- 
trophe ? 

The  genius  of  Goldsmith  was  chiefly  fertilized  by  observa- 
tion. He  was  not  one  of  those  who  regard  books  as  the  only, 
or  even  the  principal,  sources  of  knowledge.  He  recognized 
and  delighted  to  study  the  unwritten  lore  so  richly  spread 
over  the  volume  of  nature,  and  shadowed  forth  so  variously 
from  the  scenes  of  every-day  life  and  the  teachings  of  individ- 
ual experience.  There  is  a  class  of  minds,  second  to  none 
in  native  acuteness  and  reflective  power,  so  constituted  as  to 
flourish  almost  exclusively  by  observation.  Too  impatient 
of  restraint  to  endure  the  long  vigils  of  the  scholar,  they  are 
yet  keenly  alive  to  every  idea  and  truth  which  is  evolved 
from  life.  Without  a  tithe  of  that  spirit  of  application  that 
binds  the  German  student  for  years  to  his  familiar  tomes, 
they  suffer  not  a  single  impression  which  events  or  character 
leave  upon  their  memories  to  pass  unappreciated.  Unlearned, 
in  a  great  measure,  in  the  history  of  the  past,  the  present  is 
not  allowed  to  pass  without  eliciting  their  intelligent  com- 
ment. Unskilled  in  the  technicalities  of  learning,  they 
contrive  to  appropriate,  with  surprising  facility,  the  wisdom 
born  of  the  passing  moment.  No  striking  trait  of  character 
— -  no  remarkable  effect  in  nature  —  none  of  the  phenomena 
of  social  existence,  escape  them.  Like  Hogarth,  they  are 
constantly  enriching  themselves  with  sketches  from  life ;  and 
as  he  drew  street-wonders  upon  his  thumb-nail,  they  note  and 
remember,  and  afterwards  elaborate  and  digest  whatever  of 
interest  experience  affords.  Goldsmith  wa»  a  true  specimen 


JUV  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 

of  this  class.  He  vindicated,  indeed,  his  claim  to  the  title  of 
scholar,  by  research  and  study;  but  the  field  most  congenial 
to  his  taste  was  the  broad  universe  of  nature  and  man.  It 
was  his  love  of  observation  which  gave  zest  to  the  roving 
life  he  began  so  early  to  indulge.  His  boyhood  was  passed 
in  a  constant  succession  of  friendly  visits.  He  was  ever 
migrating  from  the  house  of  one  kinsman  or  friend  to  that 
of  another ;  and  on  these  occasions,  as  well  as  when  at  home, 
he  was  silently  but  faithfully  observing.  The  result  is  easily 
traced  in  his  writings.  Few  authors,  indeed,  are  so  highly 
indebted  to  personal  observation  for  their  materials.  It  is 
well  known  that  the  original  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  was 
his  own  father.  Therein  has  he  embodied  in  a  charming 
manner  his  early  recollections  of  his  parent,  and  the  picture 
is  rendered  still  more  complete  in  his  papers  on  the  "  Man  in 
Black."  The  inimitable  description,  too,  of  the  "Village 
Schoolmaster "  is  drawn  from  the  poet's  early  teacher ;  and 
the  veteran  who  "  shouldered  his  crutch  and  told  how  fields 
were  won "  had  often  shared  the  hospitality  of  his  father's 
roof.  The  leading  incident  in  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer"  was 
his  own  adventure ;  and  there  is  little  question  that,  in  the 
quaint  tastes  of  Mr.  Burchell,  he  aimed  to  exhibit  many  of 
his  peculiar  traits.  But  it  is  not  alone  in  the  leading  char- 
acters of  his  novel,  plays  and  poems  that  we  discover  Gold- 
smith's observing  power.  It  is  equally  discernible  throughout 
his  essays  and  desultory  papers.  Most  of  his  illustrations  are 
borrowed  from  personal  experience,  and  his  opinions  are 
generally  founded  upon  experiment.  His  talent  for  fresh 
and  vivid  delineation  is  ever  most  prominently  displayed 
when  he  is  describing  what  he  actually  witnessed,  or  drawing 
from  the  rich  fund  of  his  early  impressions  or  subsequent 
adventures.  No  appeal  to  humor,  curiosity  or  imagination 


GOLDSMITH.  XV 

Iras  unheeded ;  and  it  is  the  blended  pictures  he  contrived  t« 
combine  from  these  cherished  associations  that  impart  so 
lively  an  interest  to  his  pages.  One  moment  we  find  him 
noting,  with  philosophic  sympathy,  the  pastimes  of  a  foreign 
peasantry ;  and  another  studying  the  operations  of  a  spide? 
at  his  garret  window,  —  now  busy  in  nomenclating  the  pecu- 
liarities of  the  Dutch,  and  anon  alluding  to  the  exhibition  of 
Cherokee  Indians.  The  natural  effect  of  this  thirst  for  ex- 
perimental knowledge  was  to  beget  a  love  for  foreign  travel. 
Accordingly,  we  find  that  Goldsmith,  after  exhausting  the 
narrow  circle  which  his  limited  means  could  compass  at 
home,  projected  a  continental  tour,  and  long  cherished  the 
hope  of  visiting  the  East.  Indeed,  we  could  scarcely  have  a 
stronger  proof  of  his  enthusiasm  than  the  long  journey  he 
undertook  and  actually  accomplished  on  foot,  The  remem- 
brance of  his  romantic  wanderings  over  Holland,  France, 
Germany,  and  Italy  imparts  a  singular  interest  to  his  writ- 
ings. It  was,  indeed,  worthy  of  a  true  poet  that,  enamored 
of  nature  and  delighting  in  the  observation  of  his  species,  he 
should  thus  manfully  go  forth,  with  no  companion  but  his 
flute,  and  wander  over  those  fair  lands  hallowed  by  past 
associations  and  existent  beauty.  A  rich  and  happy  era, 
despite  its  moments  of  discomfort,  to  such  a  spirit,  was  that 
year  of  solitary  pilgrimage.  Happy  and  proud  must  have 
been  the  imaginative  pedestrian  as  he  reposed  his  weary 
frame  in  the  peasant's  cottage  "  beside  the  murmuring  Loire ;" 
and  happier  still  when  he  stood  amid  the  green  valleys  of 
Switzerland,  and  looked  around  upon  her  snow-capt  hills, 
hailed  the  old  towers  of  Verona,  or  entered  the  gate  of  Flor- 
ence—the long-anticipated  goals  to  which  his  weary  foot- 
•teps  had  so  patiently  tended.  If  anything  could  enhance 
the  pleasure  of  musing  amid  these  scenes  of  poetic  interest, 


XV  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 

it  must  have  been  the  consciousness  of  having  reached  them 
by  so  gradual  and  self-denying  a  progress.  There  is,  in 
truth,  no  more  characteristic  portion  of  Goldsmith's  biog- 
raphy than  that  which  records  this  remarkable  tour;  and 
there  are  few  more  striking  instances  of  the  available  worth 
of  talent.  Unlike  the  bards  of  old,  he  won  not  his  way  to 
shelter  and  hospitality  by  appealing  to  national  feeling ;  for 
the  lands  through  which  he  roamed  were  not  his  own,  and 
the  lay  of  the  last  minstrel  had  long  since  died  away  in 
oblivion.  But  he  gained  the  ready  kindness  of  the  peasantry 
by  playing  the  flute,  as  they  danced  in  the  intervals  of  toil ; 
and  won  the  favor  of  the  learned  by  successful  disputation 
at  the  convents  and  universities  —  a  method  of  rewarding 
talent  which  was  extensively  practised  in  Europe  at  that 
period.  Thus,  solely  befriended  by  his  wits,  the  roving  poet 
rambled  over  the  continent,  and,  notwithstanding  the  vicissi- 
tudes incident  to  so  precarious  a  mode  of  seeing  the  world, 
to  a  mind  like  his  there  was  ample  compensation  in  the 
superior  opportunities  for  observation  thus  afforded.  He 
mingled  frankly  with  the  people,  and  saw  things  as  they 
were.  The  scenery  which  environed  him  flitted  not  before 
his  senses  like  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  panorama,  but  became 
familiar  to  his  eye  under  the  changing  aspects  of  time  and 
season.  Manners  and  customs  he  quietly  studied,  with  the 
advantage  of  sufficient  opportunity  to  institute  just  compari- 
sons and  draw  fair  inferences.  In  short,  Goldsmith  was  no 
tyro  in  the  philosophy  of  travel ;  and,  although  the  course 
he  pursued  was  dictated  by  necessity,  its  superior  results  are 
abundantly  evidenced  throughout  his  works.  We  have, 
indeed,  no  formal  narrative  of  his  journeyings ;  but,  what  is 
better,  there  is  scarcely  a  page  thrown  off  to  supply  the 
pressing  wants  of  the  moment  which  is  not  enriched  by  some 


GOLDSMITH. 

pleasing  reminiscence  or  sensible  thought  garnered  from  the 
recollection  and  scenes  of  that  long  pilgrimage.  Nor  did  he 
fail  to  embody  the  prominent  impressions  of  so  interesting 
an  epoch  of  his  checkered  life  in  a  more  enduring  and  beauti- 
ful form.  The  poem  of  "  The  Traveller,"  originally  sketched 
in  Switzerland,  was  subsequently  revised  and  extended.  It 
was  the  foundation  of  Goldsmith's  poetical  fame.  The  sub- 
ject evinces  the  taste  of  the  author.  The  unpretending  vein 
of  enthusiasm  which  runs  through  it  is  only  equalled  by  the 
force  and  simplicity  of  the  style.  The  rapid  sketches  of  the 
several  countries  it  presents  are  vigorous  and  pleasing ;  and 
the  reflections  interspersed  abound  with  that  truly  humane 
spirit,  and  that  deep  sympathy  with  the  good,  the  beautiful, 
and  the  true,  which  distinguishes  the  poet.  This  production 
may  be  regarded  as  the  author's  first  deliberate  attempt  in 
the  career  of  genius.  It  went  through  nine  editions  during 
his  life,  and  its  success  contributed,  in  a  great  measure,  to 
encourage  and  sustain  him  in  future  and  less  genial  efforts. 

The  faults  which  are  said  to  have  deformed  the  character 
of  Goldsmith,  belong  essentially  to  the  class  of  foibles  rather 
than  absolute  and  positive  errors.  Recent  biographers  agree 
in  the  opinion,  that  his  alleged  devotion  to  play  has  either 
been  grossly  exaggerated,  or  was  but  a  temporary  mania; 
and  we  should  infer  from  his  own  allusion  to  the  subject, 
that  he  had,  with  the  flexibility  of  disposition  that  belonged 
to  him,  yielded  only  so  far  to  its  seductions  as  to  learn  from 
experience  the  supreme  folly  of  the  practice.  It  is  at  all 
events  certain,  that  his  means  were  too  restricted,  and  his 
time,  while  in  London,  too  much  occupied  to  allow  of  his 
enacting  the  part  of  a  regular  and  professed  gamester ;  and 
during  the  latter  and  most  busy  years  of  his  life,  we  have  the 
testimony  of  the  members  of  the  celebrated  club  to  which  he 


XVffi  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 

was  attached,  to  the  temperance  and  industry  of  his  habiti 
Another,  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  perhaps,  greater  weak- 
ness recorded  of  him,  was  a  mawkish  vanity,  sometimes  ac- 
companied by  jealousy  of  more  successful  competitors  foT 
the  honors  of  literature.  Some  anecdotes,  illustrative  of  this 
unamiable  trait  are  preserved,  which  would  amuse  us,  were 
they  associated  with  less  noble  endowments  or  a  more  unin- 
teresting character.  As  it  is,  'however,  not  a  few  of  them 
challenge  credulity,  from  their  utter  want  of  harmony  with 
certain  dispositions  which  he  is  universally  allowed  to  have 
possessed.  But  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  common 
errors  in  judging  of  character,  to  take  an  isolated  and  partial, 
instead  of  a  broad  and  comprehensive  view  of  the  various 
qualities  which  go  to  form  the  man,  and  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances that  have  influenced  their  development.  Upon  a 
candid  retrospect  of  Goldsmith's  life,  it  appears  to  us  that 
the  display  of  vanity,  which  in  the  view  of  many  are  so  de- 
meaning, may  be  easily  and  satisfactorily  explained.  Few 
men  possess  talent  of  any  kind  unconsciously.  It  seems  de- 
signed by  the  Creator,  that  the  very  sense  of  capacity  should 
urge  genius  to  fulfil  its  mission,  and  support  its  early  and 
lonely  efforts  by  the  earnest  conviction  of  ultimate  success. 
To  beings  thus  endowed,  the  neglect  and  contumely  of  the 
world  —  the  want  of  sympathy  —  the  feeling  of  misapprecia- 
tion,  is  often  a  keen  sorrow  felt  precisely  in  proportion  to  the 
susceptibility  of  the  individual,  and  expressed  according  a* 
he  is  ingenuous  and  frank. 

In  the  case  of  Goldsmith,  his  long  and  solitary  struggle 
with  poverty  —  his  years  of  obscure  toil  —  his  ill-success  in 
every  scheme  for  support,  coupled  as  they  were  with  an  in- 
tuitive and  deep  consciousness  of  mental  power  and  poetic 
gifts,  were  calculated  to  render  him  painfully  alive  to  the  su- 


GOLDSMITH.  SIS 

f 

perior  consideration  bestowed  upon  lets  deserving,  but  more 
presumptuous  men,  and  the  unmerited  and  unjust  disregard 
to  his  own  claims.  Weak  it  undoubtedly  was,  for  him  to 
give  vent  so  childishly  to  such  feelings,  but  this  sprung  from 
the  spontaneous  honesty  of  his  nature.  He  felt  as  thousands 
have  felt  under  similar  circumstances,  but,  unlike  the  most 
of  men,  "  he  knew  not  the  art  of  concealment."  Indeed,  this 
free  spoken  and  candid  disposition  was  inimical  to  his  success 
in  more  than  one  respect.  He  was  ever  a  careless  talker,  un* 
able  to  play  the  great  man,  and  instinctively  preferring  the 
spontaneous  to  the  formal,  and  "  thinking  aloud  "  to  studied 
and  circumspect  speech.  The  "exquisite  sensibility  to  con- 
tempt," too,  which  he  confesses  belonged  to  him,  frequently 
induced  an  appearance  of  conceit,  when  no  undue  share 
existed.  The  truth  is,  the  legitimate  pride  of  talent,  for 
want  of  free  and  natural  scope,  often  exhibited  itself  in  Gold- 
smith greatly  to  his  disadvantage.  The  fault  was  rather  in 
his  destiny  than  himself.  He  ran  away  from  college  with 
the  design  of  embarking  for  America,  because  he  was  re- 
proved by  an  unfeeling  tutor  before  a  convivial  party  of  his 
friends ;  and  descended  to  a  personal  rencontre  with  a  printer, 
who  impudently  delivered  Dodsley's  refusal  that  he  should 
undertake  an  improved  edition  of  Pope.  He  concealed  his 
name  when  necessity  obliged  him  to  apply  for  the  office  of 
Usher;  and  received  visits  and  letters  at  a  fashionable  coffee- 
house, rather  than  expose  the  poorness  of  his  lodgings.  H« 
joined  the  crowd  to  hear  his  own  ballads  sung  when  a  stu- 
dent; and  openly  expressed  his  wonder  at  the  stupidity  of 
people,  in  preferring  the  tricks  of  a  mountebank  to  the  so- 
ciety of  a  man  like  himself.  While  we  smile  at,  we  cannot 
wholly  deride  such  foibles,  and  are  constrained  to  say  of 
Goldsmith  as  he  said  of  the  Village  Pastor  — 

"  And  e'en  bis  failings  leaned  to  virtue'*  side." 


«  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 

\ 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  whether  the  improvidence  of  our  poet 
arose  more  from  that  recklessness  of  the  future,  character- 
istic of  the  Irish  temperament,  or  the  singular  confidence  in 
destiny  which  is  so  common  a  trait  in  men  of  ideal  tenden- 
cies. It  would  naturally  be  supposed,  that  the  stern  lesson 
of  severe  experience  would  have  eventually  corrected  this 
want  of  foresight.  It  was  but  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth 
which  lured  him  to  forget  amid  the  convivialities  of  a  party, 
the  vessel  on  board  which  he  had  taken  passage  and  em- 
barked his  effects,  on  his  first  experiment  in  travelling ;  but 
later  in  life  we  find  him  wandering  out  on  the  first  evening 
of  his  arrival  in  Edinburgh,  without  noting  the  street  or 
number  of  his  lodging;  inviting  a  party  of  strangers  in  a 
public  garden  to  take  tea  with  him,  without  a  sixpence  in 
his  pocket ;  and  obstinately  persisting,  during  his  last  illness, 
in  taking  a  favorite  medicine,  notwithstanding  it  aggravated 
his  disease.  A  life  of  greater  vicissitude  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  in  the  annals  of  literature.  Butler  and  Otway  w»  ro. 
indeed,  victims  of  indigence,  and  often,  perhaps,  found  them- 
selves, like  our  bard,  "  in  a  garret  writing  for  bread,  and  ex- 
pecting every  moment  to  be  dunned  for  a  milk-score,"  but 
the  biography  of  Goldsmith  displays  a  greater  variety  of 
shifts  resorted  to  for  subsistence.  He  was  successively  an 
itinerant  musician,  a  half-starved  usher,  a  chemist's  appren- 
tice, private  tutor,  law-student,  practising  physician,  eager 
disputant,  hack-writer,  and  even,  for  a  week  or  two,  one  of  a 
company  of  strolling  players.  In  the  History  of  George 
Primrose,  he  is  supposed  to  have  described  much  of  his  per- 
sonal experience  prior  to  the  period  when  he  became  a  pro- 
fessed litterateur.  We  cannot  but  respect  the  independent 
spirit  he  maintained  through  all  these  struggles  with  ad- 
verse fortune.  Notwithstanding  his  poverty,  the  attempt  to 


GOLDSMITH.  XXI 

chain  his  talents  to  the  service  of  a  political  faction  by  mer- 
cenary motives  was  indignantly  spurned,  and  when  his  good 
genius  proved  triumphant,  he  preferred  to  inscribe  its  first 
acknowledged  offspring  to  his  brother,  than,  according  to  the 
servile  habits  of  the  day,  dedicate  it  to  any  aristocratic  pa- 
tron, "  that  thrift  might  follow  fawning."  With  all  his  in- 
capacity for  assuming  dignity,  Goldsmith  never  seems  to  have 
forgotten  the  self-respect  becoming  one  of  nature's  nobility. 

The  high  degree  of  excellence  attained  by  Goldsmith  in 
such  various  and  distinct  species  of  literary  effort,  is  worthy 
of  remark.  As  an  essayist  he  has  contributed  some  of  the 
most  pure  and  graceful  specimens  of  English  prose  discover- 
able in  the  whole  range  of  literature.  His  best  comedy  con- 
tinues to  maintain  much  of  its  original  popularity,  notwith- 
standing the  revolutions  which  public  taste  has  undergone 
since  it  was  first  introduced ;  and  "  The  Hermit "  is  still  an 
acknowledged  model  in  ballad-writing.  If  from  his  more 
finished  works  we  turn  to  those  which  were  thrown  off  under 
the  pressing  exigencies  of  his  life,  it  is  astonishing  what  a 
contrast  of  subjects  employed  his  pen.  During  his  college 
days,  he  was  constantly  writing  ballads  on  popular  events, 
which  he  disposed  of  at  five  shillings  each,  and  subsequently, 
after  his  literary  career  had  fairly  commenced,  we  find  him 
sedulously  occupied  in  preparing  prefaces,  historical  compila- 
tions, translations,  and  reviews  for  the  booksellers ;  one  day 
throwing  off  a  pamphlet  on  the  Cock-lane  Ghost,  and  the 
next  inditing  Biographical  Sketches  of  Beau  Nash ;  at  one 
moment,  busy  upon  a  festive  song,  and  at  another,  deep  in 
composing  the  words  of  an  Oratorio.  It  is  curious,  with  the 
intense  sentiment  and  finished  pictures  of  fashionable  life 
with  which  the  fictions  of  our  day  abound,  fresh  in  the  mem- 
ory, to  open  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  We  seem  to  be  read 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 

ing  the  memoirs  of  an  earlier  era  instead  of  a  different  sphere 
of  life.  There  are  no  wild  and  improbable  incidents,  no 
startling  views,  and  with  the  exception  of  Burchell's  incog- 
nito, no  attempt  to  excite  interest  through  the  attraction  «rf 
mystery.  And  yet,  few  novels  have  enjoyed  such  extensive 
and  permanent  favor.  It  is  yet  the  standard  work  for  intro- 
ducing students  on  the  continent  to  a  knowledge  of  our 
language,  and  though  popular  taste  at  present  demands  quite 
a  different  style  of  entertainment,  yet  Goldsmith's  novel  is 
often  reverted  to  with  delight,  from  the  vivid  contrast  it  pre- 
sents to  the  reigning  school ;  while  the  attractive  picture  it 
affords  of  rural  life  and  humble  virtue,  will  ever  render  it 
intrinsically  dear  and  valuable. 

But  the  "Deserted  Village"  is,  of  all  Goldsmith's  produc- 
tions, unquestionably  the  favorite.  It  carries  back  the  mind 
to  the  early  seasons  of  life,  and  re-asserts  the  power  of  un- 
sophisticated tastes.  Hence,  while  other  poems  grow  stale, 
this  preserves  its  charm.  Dear  to  the  heart  and  sacred  to 
the  imagination,  are  those  sweet  delineations  of  unperverted 
existence.  There  is  true  pathos  in  that  tender  lament  over 
the  superceded  sports  and  ruined  haunts  of  rustic  enjoyment 
which  never  fails  to  find  a  response  in  every  feeling  breast. 
It  is  an  elaborate  and  touching  epitaph,  written  in  the  ceme- 
tery of  the  world,  over  what  is  dear  to  all  humanity.  There 
is  a  truth  in  the  eloquent  defence  of  agricultural  pursuits  and 
natural  pastimes,  that  steals  like  a  well-remembered  strain 
over  the  heart  immersed  in  the  toil  and  crowds  of  cities. 
There  is  an  unborn  beauty  in  the  similes  of  the  bird  and  her 
"unfledged  offspring,"  the  hare  that  "pants  to  the  place  from 
whence  at  first  he  flew,"  and  the  "tall  cliff  that  lifts  its 
awful  form,"  which  despite  their  familiarity,  retain  their 
power  to  delight.  And  no  clear  and  susceptible  mind  can 


GOLDSMITH. 

ever  lose  its  interest  in  the  unforced,  unexaggerated,  and 
heart-stirring  numbers,  which  animate  with  pleasure  the 
pulses  of  youth,  gratify  the  mature  taste  of  manhood,  and 
fall  with  soothing  sweetness  upon  the  ear  of  age. 

We  are  not  surprised  at  the  exclamation  of  a  young  lady 
who  had  been  accustomed  to  say  that  our  poet  was  the  home- 
liest of  men,  after  reading  the  *'  Deserted  Village  "  —  "I  shall 
never  more  think  Dr.  Goldsmith  ugly ! "  This  poem  passed 
through  five  editions  in  as  many  months,  and  from  its  domes- 
tic character  became  immediately  popular  throughout  Eng- 
land. Its  melodious  versification  is  doubtless,  in  a  measure, 
to  be  ascribed  to  its  author's  musical  taste,  and  the  fascinat- 
ing ease  of  its  flow  is  the  result  of  long  study  and  careful  revis- 
ion. Nothing  is  more  deceitful  than  the  apparent  facility 
observable  in  poetry.  No  poet  exhibits  more  of  this  charac- 
teristic than  Ariosto,  and  yet  his  manuscripts  are  filled  with 
erasures  and  repetitions.  Few  things  appear  more  negligent- 
ly graceful  than  the  well-arranged  drapery  of  a  statue,  yet 
how  many  experiments  must  the  artist  try  before  the  desired 
effect  is  produced.  So  thoroughly  did  the  author  revise  the 
"  Descried  Village,"  that  not  a  single  original  line  remained. 
The  deafness  and  warmth  of  his  style  is,  to  my  mind,  as 
indicative  of  Goldsmith's  truth,  as  the  candor  of  his  charac- 
ter or  the  sincerity  of  his  sentiments.  It  has  been  said  of 
Pitt's  elocution,  that  it  had  the  effect  of  impressing  one  with 
the  idea  that  the  man  was  greater  than  the  orator.  A  simi- 
lar influence  it  seems  to  me  is  produced  by  the  harmonious 
rersification  and  elegant  diction  of  Goldsmith. 

It  is  not,  indeed,  by  an  analysis,  however  critical,  of  the 
intellectual  distinctions  of  any  author,  that  we  can  arrive  at 
a  complete  view  of  his  genius.  It  is  to  the  feelings  that  we 
must  look  for  that  earnestness  which  gives  vigor  to  mental 


XXIV  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 

efforts,  and  imparts  to  them  their  peculiar  tone  and  coloring. 
And  it  will  generally  be  found  that  what  is  really  and  per. 
manently  attractive  in  the  works  of  genius,  independent  of 
mere  diction,  is  to  be  traced  rather  to  the  heart  than  to  the 
head.  We  may  admire  the  original  conception,  the  lofty  im- 
agery or  winning  style  of  a  popular  author,  but  what  touches 
us  most  deeply  is  the  sentiment  of  which  these  are  the  vehi- 
cles. The  fertile  invention  of  Petrarch,  in  displaying  under 
such  a  variety  of  disguises  the  same  favorite  subject,  is  not 
so  moving  as  the  unalterable  devotion  which  inspires  his 
fancy  and  quickens  his  muse.  The  popularity  of  Mrs.  He- 
mans  is  more  owing  to  the  delicate  and  deep  enthusiasm  than 
to  the  elegance  of  her  poetry,  and  Charles  Lamb  is  not  less 
attractive  for  his  kindly  affections  than  for  his  quaint  humor. 
Not  a  little  of  the  peculiar  charm  of  Goldsmith  is  attributa- 
ble to  the  excellence  of  his  heart.  Mere  talent  would  scarcely 
have  sufficed  to  interpret  and  display  so  enchantingly  the  hum- 
ble characters  and  scenes  to  which  his  most  brilliant  efforts 
were  devoted.  It  was  his  sincere  and  ready  sympathy  with 
man,  his  sensibility  to  suffering  in  every  form,  his  strong 
social  sentiment  and  his  amiable  interest  in  all  around,  which 
brightened  to  his  mind's  eye  what  to  the  less  susceptible  is 
unheeded  and  obscure.  Naturally  endowed  with  free  and 
keen  sensibilities,  his  own  experience  of  privation  prevented 
them  from  indurating  through  age  or  prosperity.  He  cher- 
ished throughout  his  life  an  earnest  faith  in  the  better  feel- 
ings of  our  nature.  He  realized  the  universal  beauty  and 
power  of  Love,  and  neither  the  solitary  pursuits  of  lit- 
erature, the  elation  of  success,  nor  the  blandishments  of 
pleasure  or  society,  ever  banished  from  his  bosom  the  gener- 
ous and  kindly  sentiments  which  adorned  his  character.  He 
was  not  the  mere  creature  of  attainment,  the  reserved  scholar 


GOLDSMITH. 

or  abstracted  dreamer.  Pride  of  intellect  usurped  not  his 
heart.  Pedantry  congealed  not  the  fountains  of  feeling.  He 
rejoiced  in  the  exercise  of  all  those  tender  and  noble  senti- 
ments which  are  so  much  more  honorable  to  man  than  the 
highest  triumphs  of  mind.  And  it  is  these  which  make  us 
love  the  man  not  less  than  admire  the  author.  Goldsmith's 
early  sympathy  with  the  sufferings  of  the  peasantry  is  elo- 
quently expressed  in  both  his  poems,  and  frequently  in  his 
prose  writings.  How  expressive  that  lament  for  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  "  Ale-House,"  —  that  it  would 

"  No  more  impart 
An  hour'*  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart." 

There  is  more  true  benevolence  in  the  feeling  which 
prompted  such  a  thought,  than  in  all  the  cold  and  calcula- 
ting philosophy  with  which  so  many  expect  to  elevate  the 
lower  classes  in  these  days  of  ultra-reform.  When  shall  we 
learn  that  we  must  sympathize  with  those  we  would  im- 
prove 1  At  college,  we  are  told,  one  bitter  night  Goldsmith 
encountered  a  poor  woman  and  her  infant  shivering  at  the 
gate,  and  having  no  money  to  give  them,  bringing  out  all 
his  bedclothes,  and  to  keep  himself  from  freezing,  cut  open 
his  bed  and  slept  within  it.  When  hard  at  work  earning  a 
scanty  pittance  in  his  garret,  he  spent  every  spare  penny 
in  cakes  for  the  children  of  his  poorer  neighbors,  and  when 
he  could  do  nothing  else,  taught  them  dancing  by  way  of 
cheering  their  poverty.  Notwithstanding  his  avowed  antip- 
athy to  Baretti,  he  visited  and  relieved  him  in  prison;  and 
when  returning  home  with  the  100/.  received  from  his  book- 
seller for  the  "  Deserted  Village,"  upon  being  told  by  an  ac- 
quaintance he  fell  in  with  that  it  was  a  great  price  for  so 
little  a  thing,  replied, '« Perhaps  it  is  more  than  he  can  af 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 

ford,"  and  returning,  offered  to  refund  a  part.  To  his  pool 
countrymen  he  was  a  constant  benefactor,  and  while  he  had 
a  shilling  was  ready  to  share  it  with  them,  so  that  they  fa- 
miliarly styled  him  "  our  doctor."  In  Leyden,  when  on  the 
point  of  commencing  his  tour,  he  stripped  himself  of  all  his 
funds  to  send  a  collection  of  flower  roots  to  an  uncle  who 
was  devoted  to  botany ;  and  on  the  first  occasion  that  pat 
ronage  was  offered  him,  declined  aid  for  himself,  to  bespeak 
a  vacant  living  for  his  brother.  In  truth  his  life  abounds  in 
anecdotes  of  a  like  nature.  We  read  one  day  of  his  pawn- 
ing his  watch  for  Pilkington,  another  of  his  bringing  home 
a  poor  foreigner  from  Temple  gardens  to  be  his  amanuensis, 
and  again  of  his  leaving  the  card-table  to  relieve  a  poor 
woman,  whose  tones  as  she  chanted  some  ditty  in  passing, 
came  to  him  above  the  hum  of  gaiety  and  indicated  to  his  ear 
distress.  Though  the  frequent  and  undeserved  subject  of 
literary  abuse,  he  was  never  known  to  write  severely  against 
anyone. 

His  talents  were  sacredly  devoted  to  the  cause  »f  virtue 
and  humanity.  No  malignant  satire  ever  came  from  his 
pen.  He  loved  to  dwell  upon  the  beautiful  vindications  in 
Nature,  of  the  paternity  of  God,  and  expatiate  upon  the 
noblest  and  most  universal  attributes  of  men.  "  If  I  were  to 
love  you  by  rule,"  he  writes  to  his  brother,  "  I  dare  say  I 
never  could  do  it  sincerely."  There  was  in  his  nature  an 
instinctive  aversion  to  the  frigid  ceremonial  and  meaningless 
professions  which  so  coldly  imitate  the  language  of  feeling. 
Goldsmith  saw  enough  of  the  world,  to  disrobe  his  mind  of 
that  scepticism  born  of  custom  which  "  makes  dotards  of  us 
all."  He  did  not  wander  among  foreign  nations,  sit  at  the 
cottage  fireside,  nor  mix  in  the  thoroughfare  and  gay  saloon, 
in  Tain.  Travel  liberalized  his  views  and  demolished  the 


GOLDSMITH*. 

barriers  of  local  prejudice.    He  looked  around  upon  his 

kind  with  the  charitable  judgment  and  interest  born  of  an 
observing  mind  and  a  kindly  heart  —  with  an  infinite  love, 
an  infinite  pity.  He  delighted  in  the  delineation  of  humble 
life,  because  he  knew  it  to  be  the  most  unperverted.  Simple 
pleasures  warmed  his  fancy  because  he  had  learned  their 
preeminent  truth.  Childhood  with  its  innocent  playfulness, 
intellectual  character  with  its  tutored  wisdom,  and  the  uncul- 
tivated but  "bold  peasantry,"  interested  him  alike.  He  could 
enjoy  an  hour's  friendly  chat  with  his  fellow-lodger  —  the 
watchmaker  in  Green  Arbor  Court  —  not  less  than  a  literary 
discussion  with  Dr.  Johnson.  "  I  must  own,"  he  writes,  "  I 
should  prefer  the  title  of  the  ancient  philosopher,  namely,  a 
Citizen  of  the  World  —  to  that  of  an  Englishman,  a  French- 
man, an  European,  or  that  of  any  appellation  whatever." 
And  this  title  he  has  nobly  earned  by  the  wide  scope  of  his 
sympathies  and  the  beautiful  pictures  of  life  and  nature 
universally  recognized  and  universally  loved,  which  have 
spread  his  name  over  the  world.  Pilgrims  to  the  supposed 
scene  of  the  Deserted  Village  have  long  since  carried  away 
every  vestige  of  the  hawthorn  at  Lissoy,  but  the  laurels  of 
Goldsmith  will  never  be  garnered  by  the  hand  of  time,  or 
blighted  by  the  frost  of  neglect,  as  long  as  there  are  minds 
to  appreciate,  or  hearts  to  reverence  the  household  lore  of 
English  Literature. 


MEMOIES 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,   M.B. 

BY  DR.  AIKIN. 


IT  cannot  be  said  of  this  ornament  of  British  literature  ai 
has  been  observed  of  most  authors,  that  the  memoirs  of  his 
life  comprise  little  more  than  a  history  of  his  writings. 
Goldsmith's  life  was  full  of  adventure ;  and  a  due  considera- 
tion of  his  conduct,  from  the  outset  to  his  death,  will  furnish 
many  useful  lessons  to  those  who  live  after  him. 

Our  author,  the  third  son  of  Mr.  Charles  Goldsmith,  was 
born  at  Elphin,  in  the  county  of  Roscommon,  Ireland,  on  the 
29th  of  November,  1728.  His  father,  who  had  been  edu- 
cated at  Dublin  College,  was  a  clergyman  of  the  established 
church,  and  had  married  Anne,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Oliver 
Jones,  master  of  the  diocesan  school  of  Elphin.  Her  moth- 
er's brother,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Green,  then  rector  of  Kilkenny 
West,  lent  the  young  couple  the  house  in  which  our  author 
was  born ;  and  at  his  death,  Mr.  Green  was  succeeded  in  his 
benefice  by  his  clerical  prot€g€e. 

Mr.  Charles  Goldsmith  had  five  sons  and  two  daughters. 

Henry,  the  eldest  son  (to  whom  the  poem  of  "  The  Travel- 
ler" is  dedicated),  distinguished  himself  greatly  both  at 


8  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

Bchool  and  at  college;  but  his  marriage  at  nineteen  yeara 
of  age  appears  to  have  been  a  bar  to  his  preferment  in  the 
c  .lurch,  and  we  believe  thai  he  never  ascended  above  a 
curacy. 

The  liberal  education  which  the  father  bestowed  upon 
Henry  had  deducted  so  much  from  a  narrow  income  that, 
when  Oliver  was  born,  after  an  interval  of  seven  years  from 
the  birth  of  the  former  child,  no  prospect  in  life  appeared 
for  him  but  a  mechanical  or  mercantile  occupation. 

The  rudiments  of  instruction  he  acquired  from  a  school- 
master in  the  village,  who  had  served  in  Queen  Anne's  wars 
as  a  quarter-master  in  that  detachment  of  the  army  which 
was  sent  to  Spain.  Being  of  a  communicative  turn,  and 
finding  a  ready  hearer  in  young  Oliver,  this  man  used  fre- 
quently to  entertain  him  with  what  he  called  his  adventures ; 
nor  is  it  without  probability  supposed  that  these  laid  the 
foundation  of  that  wandering  disposition  which  became 
afterwards  so  conspicuous  in  his  pupil. 

At  a  very  early  age  Oliver  began  to  exhibit  indications  of 
genius;  for,  when  only  seven  or  eight  years  old,  he  would 
often  amuse  his  father  and  mother  with  poetical  attempts, 
which  attracted  much  notice  from  them  and  their  friends ; 
but  his  infant  mind  does  not  appear  to  have  been  much 
elated  by  their  approbation ;  for,  after  his  verses  had  been 
admired,  they  were,  without  regret,  committed  by  him  to 
the  flames. 

He  was  now  taken  from  the  tuition  of  the  quondam  soldier 
to  be  put  under  that  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin,  schoolmaster  of 
Elphin ;  and  was  at  the  same  time  received  into  the  house  of 
his  father's  brother,  John  Goldsmith,  Esq.,  of  Ballyoughter, 
near  that  town. 

Our  author's  eldest  sister,  Catherine  (afterwards  married 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  9 

to  Daniel  Hodson,  Esq.,  of  Lishoy,  near  Ballymahon),  re- 
lates that  one  evening,  when  Oliver  was  about  nine  years  of 
age,  a  company  of  young  people  of  both  sexes  being  assem- 
bled at  his  uncle's,  the  boy  was  required  to  dance  a  hornpipe, 
a  youth  undertaking  to  play  to  him  on  the  fiddle.  Being  but 
lately  out  of  the  small-pox,  which  had  much  disfigured  his 
countenance,  and  his  bodily  proportions  being  short  and 
thick,  the  young  musician  thought  to  show  his  wit  by  com- 
paring our  hero  to  JEsop  dancing;  and  having  harped  a 
little  too  long,  as  the  caperer  thought,  on  this  bright  idea, 
the  latter  stopped,  and  said :  — 

Our  herald  hath  proclaimed  this  saying, 
'  See  ^Esop  dancing,'  —  and  his  Monkey  playing. 

This  instance  of  early  wit,  we  are  told,  decided  his  for- 
tune :  for,  from  that  time  it  was  determined  to  send  him  to 
the  university;  and  some  of  his  relations,  who  were  in  the 
church,  offered  to  contribute  towards  the  expense,  particular- 
ly the  Rev.  Thos.  Cantarine,  rector  of  Kilmore,  near  Carrick- 
upon-Shannon,  who  had  married  an  aunt  of  Oliver's.  The 
Rev.  Mr.  Green  also,  whom  we  have  before  mentioned,  liber- 
ally assisted  in  this  friendly  design. 

To  further  the  purpose  intended,  he  was  now  removed  to 
Athlone,  where  he  continued  about  two  years  under  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Campbell,  who  being  then  obliged  by  ill-health  to  resign 
the  charge,  Oliver  was  sent  to  the  school  of  the  Rev.  Patrick 
Hughes,  at  Edgeworthstown,  in  the  county  of  Longford.* 

*  We  are  told  that,  in  his  last  journey  to  this  school,  he  had  an  adven. 
ture  which  is  thought  to  have  suggested  the  plot  of  his  comedy  of  '  Sh« 
Stoops  to  Conquer.'  — Some  friend  had  given  him  a  guinea,  and  in  his 
Way  to  Edgeworthstown,  which  was  about  twenty  miles  from  his  father'* 


10  AIKLN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

Under  this  gentleman  he  was  prepared  for  the  university, 
and  on  the  llth  of  June,  1744,  was  admitted  a  Sizer  of  Trin- 
ity College,  Dublin,*  under  the  tuition  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Wilder,  one  of  the  Fellows,  who  was  a  man  of  harsh  temper 
and  violent  passions ;  and  Oliver  being  of  a  thoughtless  and 
gay  turn,  it  cannot  be  surprising  that  they  should  soon  be 
dissatisfied  with  each  other. 

Oliver,  it  seems,  had  one  day  imprudently  invited  a  party 
of  both  sexes  to  a  supper  and  ball  in  his  rooms,  which  com- 
ing to  the  ears  of  his  tutor,  the  latter  entered  the  place  in  the 
midst  of  their  jollity,  abused  the  whole  company,  and  in- 
flicted manual  correction  on  Goldsmith  in  their  presence. 

This  mortification  had  such  an  effect  on  the  mind  of  Oliver, 
that  he  resolved  to  seek  his  fortune  in  some  place  where  he 
should  be  unknown ;  accordingly  he  sold  his  books  and  clothes, 
and  quitted  the  university,  but  loitered  about  the  streets, 

honse,  he  had  amused  himself  the  whole  day  with  viewing  the  gentle- 
men's seats  on  the  road,  and  at  nightfall  found  himself  in  the  small  town 
of  Ardagh.  Here  he  inquired  for  the  best  house  in  the  place,  meaning 
the  best  inn  ;  but  his  informant,  taking  the  question  in  its  literal  sense, 
showed  him  to  the  house  of  a  private  gentleman,  where,  calling  for 
somebody  to  take  his  horse  to  the  stable,  our  hero  alighted,  and  was 
shown  into  the  parlor,  being  supposed  to  have  come  on  a  visit  to  the 
master,  whom  he  found  sitting  by  the  fire.  This  gentleman  soon  discov- 
ered Oliver's  mistake,  but  being  a  man  of  humor,  and  learning  from  him 
the  name  of  his  father,  (whom  he  knew,)  be  favored  the  deception. 
Oliver  ordered  a  good  supper,  and  invited  his  landlord  and  landlady, 
with  their  daughters,  to  partake  of  it;  he  treated  them  with  a  bottle  or 
two  of  wine,  and  at  going  to  bed,  ordered  a  hot  cake  to  be  prepared  for 
his  breakfast;  nor  was  it  till  he  was  about  to  depart,  and  called  for  his 
bill,  that  he  discovered  his  mistake. 

*The  celebrated  Edmund  Burke  wag  at  the  same  time  a  collegian 
here. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  11 

considering  of  a  destination,  till  his  money  was  exhausted. 
With  a  solitary  shilling  in  his  pocket  he  at  last  left  Dublin ; 
by  abstinence  he  made  this  sum  last  him  three  days,  and  then 
was  obliged  to  part,  by  degrees,  with  the  clothes  off  his  back, 
in  short,  to  snch  an  extremity  was  he  reduced,  as  to  find  a 
handful  of  gray-peas,  given  him  by  a  girl  at  a  wake,  the 
most  comfortable  repast  that  he  had  ever  made. 

After  numberless  adventures  in  this  vagrant  state,  he 
found  his  way  home,  and  was  replaced  under  his  morose  and 
merciless  tutor,  by  whom  he  was  again  exposed  to  so  many 
mortifications,  as  induced  an  habitual  despondence  of  mind, 
and  a  total  carelessness  about  his  studies ;  the  consequence 
of  which  was  that  he  neither  obtained  a  scholarship  nor 
became  a  candidate  for  the  premiums.  On  the  25th  of 
May,  1747,  he  received  a  public  admonition  for  having  as- 
sisted other  collegians  in  a  riot  occasioned  by  a  scholar  hav- 
ing been  arrested,  quod  seditioni  famsset,  et  tumultuantibus 
opem  tulisset :  in  this  case,  however,  he  appears  to  have  fared 
better  than  some  of  his  companions,  who  were  expelled  the 
university.  On  the  15th  of  June  following  he  was  elected 
one  of  the  exhibitioners  on  the  foundation  of  Erasmus 
Smyth :  but  was  not  admitted  to  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of 
Arts  till  February,  1749,  which  was  two  years  after  the 
usual  period. 

Oliver's  father  being  now  dead,  his  uncle  Contarine  under- 
took to  supply  his  place,  and  wished  him  to  prepare  for  holy 
orders.  This  proposal  not  meeting  with  the  young  man's  in 
clination,  Mr.  Contarine  next  resolved  on  sending  him  to 
London,  that  he  might  study  law  in  the  temple.  Whilst  at 
Dublin,  however,  on  his  way  to  England,  he  fell  in  with  a 
sharper,  who  cheated  him  at  play  of  50?.,  which  had  been 
provided  for  his  carriage,  eto.  He  returned,  and  received  his 


12  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

uncle's  forgiveness ;  it  was  now  finally  settled  that  he  should 
mako  physic  his  profession  ;  and  he  departed  for  Edinburgh, 
where  he  settled  about  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1752- 
Here  he  attended  the  lectures  of  Dr.  Monroe  and  the  other 
medical  professors ;  but  his  studies  were  by  no  means  regu- 
lar ;  and  an  indulgence  in  dissipated  company,  with  a  readj 
hand  to  administer  to  the  necessities  of  whoever  asked  him, 
kept  him  always  poor. 

Having,  however,  gone  through  the  usual  courses  of  pliys. 
ic  and  anatomy  in  the  Scottish  university,  Goldsmith  was 
about  to  remove  to  Leyden  to  complete  his  studies;  and  his 
departure  was  hastened  by  a  debt  to  Mr.  Barclay,  a  tailor  in 
Edinburgh,  which  he  had  imprudently  made  his  own  by  be- 
coming security  for  a  fellow  student  who,  either  from  want 
of  principle  or  of  means,  had  failed  to  pay  it ;  for  this  debt 
he  was  arrested  ;  but  was  released  by  the  kindness  of  Dr. 
Sleigh  and  Mr.  Laughlin  Maclaine,  whose  friendship  he  had 
acquired  at  the  college. 

He  now  embarked  for  Bourdeaux,  on  board  a  Scotch  ves 
sel  called  the  St.  Andrew's,  Capt.  John  Wall  master.  The 
ship  made  a  tolerable  appearance ;  and  as  another  induce- 
ment to  our  hero,  he  was  informed  that  six  agreeable  passen- 
gers were  to  be  his  company.  They  had  been  but  two  days 
at  sea,  however,  when  a  storm  drove  them  into  Newcastle- 
upon-Tyne,  and  the  passengers  went  ashore  to  refresh  after 
the  fatigue  of  their  voyage.  '  Seven  men  and  I,'  (says  Gold- 
smith) were  on  shore  the  following  evening  ;  but  as  we  were 
all  very  merry,  the  room  door  burst  open,  and  there  entered 
a  sergeant  and  twelve  grenadiers,  with  their  bayonets 
screwed,  who  put  us  all  under  the  King's  arrest.  It  seems 
my  company  were  Scotchmen  in  the  French  service,  and  had 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  13 

been  in  Scotland  to  enlist  soldiers  for  Louis  XV.  I  endeav- 
ored all  I  could  to  prove  my  innocence  ;  however,  I  remained 
in  prison  with  the  rest  a  fortnight,  and  with  difficulty  got  off 
even  then.  But  hear  how  Providence  interposed  in  my  fav- 
or :  the  ship,  which  had  set  sail  for  Bourdeaux  before  I  got 
from  prison,  was  wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  Garonne,  and 
every  one  of  the  crew  drowned.' — Fortunately,  there  was  a 
ship  now  ready  at  Newcastle,  for  Holland,  on  board  of  which 
he  embarked,  and  in  nine  days  reached  Rotterdam  ;  whence 
he  travelled  by  land  to  Leyden. 

Here  he  resided  about  a  year,  studying  anatomy  under 
Albinus,  and  chemistry  under  Gambius ;  but  here,  as  former- 
ly, his  little  property  was  destroyed  by  play  and  dissipation  ; 
and  he  is  actually  believed  to  have  set  out  on  his  travels  with 
only  one  clean  shirt,  and  not  a  guilder  in  his  purse,  trusting 
wholly  to  Providence  for  a  subsistence. 

It  is  generally  understood  that,  in  the  history  of  his  Philo- 
sophic Vagabond  (Vicar  of  Wakefield,  chap,  xx.),  he  has  re- 
lated many  of  his  own  adventures  ;  and  that  when  on  his  pe- 
destrian tour  through  Flanders  and  France,  as  he  had  some 
knowledge  of  music,  he  turned  what  had  formerly  been  his 
amusement  into  a  present  means  of  subsistence.  'I  passed, 
(says  he)  among  the  harmless  peasants  of  Flanders,  and  ' 
among  such  of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very 
merry  ;  for  I  ever  found  them  sprightly  in  proportion  to  their 
wants.  Whenever  I  approached  a  peasant's  house  towards 
nightfall,  I  played  on  my  German  flute  one  of  my  most  merry 
tunes,  and  that  procured  me  not  only  a  lodging,  but  subsist- 
ence for  the  next  day.  I  once  or  twice  attempted  to  play  for 
people  of  fashion ;  but  they  always  thought  my  performance 
odious,  and  never  rewarded  me  even  with  a  trifle.  This  was 


14 


to  me  the  more  extraordinary  ;  as  whenever  I  used  in  better 
days  to  play  for  company,  when  playing  was  my  amusement, 
my  music  never  failed  to  throw  them  into  raptures,  and  the 
ladies  especially ;  but  as  it  was  now  my  only  means,  it  was 
received  with  contempt ;  a  proof  how  ready  the  world  is  to 
underrate  those  talents  by  which  a  man  is  supported ! '  At 
the  different  monasteries  in  his  tour,  especially  those  of  his 
own  nation,  his  learning  generally  procured  him  temporary, 
entertainment ;  and  thus  he  made  his  way  to  Switzerland, 
in  which  country  he  first  cultivated  his  poetical  talents  with 
any  particular  effect ;  for  here  we  find  he  wrote  about  two 
hundred  lines  of  his  'Traveller.' 

The  story  which  has  commonly  been  told,  of  his  having 
acted  as  travelling  tutor  to  a  young  miser,  is  now  thought  to 
have  been  too  hastily  adopted  from  the  aforesaid  history  of  a 
Philosophic  Vagabond,  and  never  to  have  been  the  real  situ- 
ation of  the  author  of  that  historv.  From  Switzerland,  Gold- 
smith proceeded  to  Padua,  where  he  stayed  six  months,  and 
is  by  some  supposed  to  have  taken  there  his  degree  of  Bache- 
lor of  Physic ;  though  others  are  of  opinion,  that  if  ever  he 
really  took  any  medical  degree  abroad,  it  was  at  Lou  vain.* 

After  visiting  all  the  northern  part  of  Italy,  he  travelled, 
still  on  foot,  through  France;  and,  embarking  at  Calais, 
landed  at  Dover  in  the  summer  of  1756,  unknown,  as  he  sup- 
posed, to  a  single  individual,  and  with  not  a  guinea  in  his 
pocket. 

His  first  endeavors  were  to  procure  employment  as  an  ush- 
er in  some  school ;  but  the  want  of  a  recommendation  as  to 
character  and  ability  rendered  his  efforts  for  some  time  fruitr 


*  In  1769,  it  is  certain,  he  was  admitted  M.  B.  at  Oxford,  which 
university  he  visited,  in  February,  in  company  with  Dr.  Johnson. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  15 

less  ;  and  how  lie  subsisted  is  not  easy  to  guess.  At  length, 
however,  it  appears  he  procured  an  usher's  place;  but  in 
what  part  the  school  was  situated,  or  how  long  he  continued 
in  it,  we  do  not  learn ;  though  we  may  form  some  idea  of 
the  uncongeniality  of  the  place  to  his  mind,  from  the  follow- 
ing passage  in  the  Philosophic  Vagabond  :  '  I  liave  been  an 
usher  at  a  boarding-school ;  and  may  I  die  but  I  would  rath- 
er be  an  under-turnkey  in  Newgate.  I  was  up  early  and 
late  ;  I  was  brow-beat  by  the  master,  hated  for  my  ugly  face 
by  my  mistress,  worried  by  the  boys  within,  and  never  per- 
mitted to  stir  out  to  meet  civility  abroad.' 

When  in  a  fit  of  disgust  he  had  quitted  this  academy,  his 
pecuniary  necessities  soon  became  pressing ;  to  relieve  which 
he  applied  to  several  apothecaries  and  chemists  for  employ- 
ment as  a  journeyman ;  but  here  his  threadbare  appearance, 
awkward  manners,  and  the  want  of  a  recommendation,  ope- 
rated sorely  to  his  prejudice  ;*  till  at  last  a  chemist  near  Fish- 
street-hill,  probably  moved  by  compassion,  gave  him  employ- 
ment in  his  laboratory,  where  he  continued  till  he  learned 
that  his  old  friend  Dr.  Sleigh,  of  Edinburgh,  was  in  town  :  on 
him  (who  had,  as  we  have  seen,  formerly  relieved  him  from 
embarrassment,)  Goldsmith  waited,  was  kindly  received,  and 
invited  to  share  his  purse  during  his  continuance  in  London. 

This  timely  assistance  enabled  our  author  to  commence 
medical  practice  at  Bankside,  in  Southwark,  whence  he  after- 

*In  a  letter,  dated  Dec.  1757,  he  writes  thus: — 'At  London,  you 
may  easily  imagine  what  difficulties  I  had  to  encounter ;  without 
friends,  recommendations,  money  or  impudence;  and  that  in  a 
country  where  being  born  an  Irishman  was  sufficient  to  keep  mo 
vinemployed.  Many  in  such  circumstances  would  have  had  re- 
course to  the  friar's  cord  or  the  suicide's  halter.  But  with  nil  my 
follies  I  had  principle  to  resist  the  one,  and  resolution  to  combat 
the  other.' 


16  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

ward  removed  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  Temple;  his  suc- 
cess as  a  physician  is  not  known,  but  his  income  was  very 
small ;  for,  as  he  used  to  say,  he  got  very  few  fees,  though 
he  had  abundance  of  patients.  Some  addition,  however,  he 
now  began  to  derive  from  the  efforts  of  his  pen  ;  and  it  ap- 
pears that  he  was  for  awhile  with  the  celebrated  Samuel 
Richardson  as  corrector  of  the  press. 

About  this  time  he  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  one  of 
the  young  physicians  whom  he  had  known  at  Edinburgh. 
This  was  a  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  John  Milner,  a  dissenting 
minister,  who  kept  a  classical  school  of  eminence  at  Peck- 
ham,  in  Surrey.  Mr.  Milner,  observing  Goldsmith's  uncer- 
tain mode  of  living,  invited  him  to  take  the  charge  of  his 
father's  school,  the  doctor  being  then  confined  by  illness;  to 
this  he  consented  ;  and  Dr.  Milner,  in  turn,  promised  t<>  «  x 
ert  his  interest  with  the  India  Directors  to  procure  for  him 
some  medical  establishment  in  the  Company's  service.  This 
promise  he  faithfully  performed,  and  Goldsmith  was  actually 
appointed  physician  to  one  of  the  factories  in  India  in  175S. 
It  appears,  however,  that  our  author  never  availed  himself  of 
this  post,*  but  continued  in  Dr.  Milner 's  academy;  and  in 
this  very  year  sold  to  Mr.  Edward  Dilly,  for  twenty  guineas, 
1  The  memoirs  of  a  Protestant  condemned  to  the  Galleys  of 
France  for  his  Religion.  Written  by  liimself.  Translated 
from  the  Original,  just  published  at  the  Hague,  by  James 
Willington,  2  vols.,  12mo. 

Towards  the  latter  end  of  1758,  Goldsmith  happened  to 

*  Though  it  is  certain  that  in  contemplation  of  going  to  India,  he 
circulated  Proposals  to  print  by  Subscription  « An  essay  on  the  Pres- 
ent State  of  taste  and  Literature  in  Europe,'  as  a  means  of  defray- 
ing the  expenses  of  his  fitting  out  for  the  voyage. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  17 

dine  at  Dr.  Milner's  table  with  Mr.  Ralph  Griffiths,  the  pro- 
prietor of  The  Monthly  Review,  who  invited  him  to  write  ar- 
ticles of  criticism  for  that  respectable  publication,  on  the  terms 
of  a  liberal  salary,  besides  board  and  lodging.  By  a  written 
agreement  this  engagement  was  to  last  for  a  year ;  but  at  the 
end  of  seven  or  eight  months  it  was  dissolved  by  mutual  con- 
sent, and  Goldsmith  took  a  miserable  apartment  in  Green- Ar- 
bor-court, Little  Old  Bailey.*  In  this  wretched  hovel  our 
author  completed  his  '  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Po- 
lite Literature  in  Europe,'  which  was  published  in  1759,  by 
Dodsley,  and  was  well  received.  In  October  of  the  same  year 
he  began  '  The  Bee,'  a  weekly  publication,  which  terminated 
at  the  eighth  number.  About  this  time,  also,  he  contributed 
some  articles  to  The  Critical  Review,  one  of  which  (we  be- 
lieve a  review  of  '  Ovid's  Epistles  translated  into  English 
verse  by  a  Mr.  Barrett,  Master  of  the  Grammar  School  at 
Ashford,  in  Kent)  introduced  him  to  the  acquaintance  of  Dr. 
Smollett,  who  was  then  editor  of  The  British  Magazine; 
and  for  that  work  Goldsmith  wrote  most  of  those  '  Essays,' 
which  were  afterwards  collected  and  published  in  a  separate 
volume.  By  Dr.  Smollett,  too,  he  was  recommended  to  some 
respectable  booksellers,  particularly  to  Mr.  John  Newbery, 
who  well  deserved  the  eulogium  bestowed  by  Warburton  on 
the  trade  in  general,  as  one  of  '  the  best  judges  and  most  lib- 
eral rewarders  of  literary  merit.'  By  Mr.  Newbery,  Gold- 
smith was  engaged  at  a  salary  of  100?.  a-year,  to  write  for 
The  Public  Ledger  a  series  of  periodical  papers.  These  he 
called  '  Chinese  Letters  ;'  and  they  were  afterwards  collect- 
ed in  two  volumes,  under  the  title  of  '  The  Citizen  of  the 

*  An  engraving  of  the  house,  illustrated  by  a  description,  waa  giv- 
en in  « The  European  Magazine,'  vol.  xJiii,  pp.  7, 8. 

3* 


/8  AIKIN'S   MEMOIRS  OF 

World.'     It  was  soou  after  this  that  he  commenced  his  ac- 
quaintance with  Dr.  Johnson. 

The  important  engagement  with  Newbery  for  a  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  encouraged  Goldsmith  to  descend  Break-neck- 
steps,*  and  to  hire  a  decent  apartment  in  Wine-Office-court, 
Fleet-street.  Here  he  dropped  the  humble  Mister,  and  dub- 
bed himself  Doctor  Goldsmith.  Here  also  he  put  the  finish 
ing  hand  to  his  excellent  novel  called  '  The  Vicar  of  Wake 
field,'  but  was,  when  he  had  done,  extremely  embarrassed  in 
his  circumstances,  dunned  by  his  landlady  for  arrears  of  rent, 
and  not  daring  to  stir  abroad  for  fear  of  arrest :  in  fact,  she 
herself  at  length  had  him  arrested  ;  he  then  summoned  reso- 
lution to  send  a  message  to  Dr.  Johnson  ;  stating  that  he  was 
in  great  distress,  and  begging  that  he  would  come  to  him  as 
soon  as  possible.  Johnson  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promis< 
follow  almost  immediately.  When  he  arrived,  he  found  Gold- 
smith in  a  violent  passion  with  the  woman  of  the  house,  but 
consoling  himself  as  well  as  he  could  with  a  bottle  of  Madeira, 
which  he  had  already  purchased  with  part  of  the  guinea. 
Johnson,  corking  the  bottle,  desired  Goldsmith  would  be  calm, 
and  consider  in  what  way  he  could  extricate  himself.  Th<> 
latter  then  produced  his  novel  as  ready  for  the  press.  Tin- 
Doctor  looked  into  it,  saw  its  merit,  and  went  away  with  it  to 
Mr.  Newbery,  who  gave  him  60J.  for  it ;  with  this  sum  he  re- 
turned to  Goldsmith, 'who,  with  many  invectives,  paid  his 
landlady  her  rent.  Newbery,  however,  seems  not  to  have 
been  very  sanguine  in  his  hope  of  this  novel ;  for  he  kept 
the  MS.  by  him  near  three  years  unprinted :  his  ready  pur 
chase  of  it,  probably,  was  in  the  way  of  a  benefaction  to  its 

*A  steep  flight  of  stairs  (commonly  so  termed)  leading  from  the 
door  of  his  lodging  house  in  Green-Arbor  court  to  Fleet-market. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  19 

distressed  author,  rather  than  under  any  idea  of  profit  by  the 
publication. 

Early  in  the  year  1763,  Goldsmith  removed  to  lodgings  at 
Canonbury-house,  Islington,  where  he  compiled  several  works 
for  Mr.  Newbery  ;  among  which  were  '  The  Art  of  Poetry,' 
2  vols.  12mo  ;  a  'Life  of  Nash ;  'and  a  'History  of  England, 
in  a  Series  of  Letters  from  a  Nobleman  to  his  son.'  This 
latter  book  was  for  a  long  time  attributed  to  George  Lord 
Lyttleton. 

In  the  following  year  he  took  chambers  on  the  upper  story 
of  the  Library  stair-case  in  the  Inner  Temple,  and  began  to 
live  in  a  genteel  style.  Still,  however,  he  was  little  known, 
except  among  the  booksellers,  till  the  year  1765,  when  he 
produced  his  poem  called  '  The  Traveller  ;  or,  A  Prospect  of 
Society,'  which  had  obtained  high  commendation  from  Dr. 
Johnson,  who  declared  '  that  there  had  not  been  so  fine  a  po- 
em since  the  time  of  Pope  ; '  yet  such  was  Goldsmith's  diffi- 
dence that,  though  he  had  completed  it  some  years  before, 
he  had  not  courage  enough  to  publish,  till  urged  to  it  by 
Johnson's  suggestions.  This  poem  heightened  his  literary 
character  with  the  booksellers,  and  introduced  him  to  several 
persons  of  superior  rank  and  talents,  as  Lord  Nugent  (after- 
wards earl  of  Clare),  Mr.  Burke,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Dr. 
Nugent,  Mr.  Bennet  Langton,  Mr.  Topham  Beauclerc,  etc., 
and  he  was  elected  one  of  the  first  members  of  '  The  Literary 
Club,'  which  had  been  just  instituted  by  Johnson,  Burke, 
and  Sir  Joshua,  and  met  at  the  Turk's-head,  Gerard-street, 
Soho,  every  Friday  evening. 

His  pathetic  ballad  of  '  The  Hermit,'  which  was  also  pub- 
lished in  1765,  recommended  him  to  the  Countess  (afterwards 
Duchess)  of  Northumberland,  who  was  a  generous  patroness 


20 

of  merit.      In  the  following  year  his 'Vicar  of  Wakefield 
jyaa  printed,  and  universally  read  and~adinired. 

His  reputation  being  now  fairly^staBTislied  as  a  novelist,  a 
poet,  and  a  critic,  Goldsmith  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  dra- 
ma, and  set  about  his  comedy  called  'The  Good-natured 
Man  '  This  he  first  offered  to  Garrick,  who,  after  a  long 
fluctuation  between  doubt  and  encouragement,  at  length  de- 
clined bringing  it  forward  at  Drury-laiie  theatre;  it  was 
therefore  taken  to  Co  vent-garden,  accepted  by  Mr.  Colman, 
and  presented  for  the  first  time  on  the  29th  of  January,  1768. 
It  was  acted  nine  times :  and  by  the  profits  of  the  author's 
three  third-nights,  with  the  sale  of  the  copyright,  a  clear 
500Z.  was  produced. 

With  this,  and  some  money  which  he  had  reserved  oat  of 
the  produce  of  a  'Roman  History'  in  2  vols.  8vo.,  and  other 
works,  he  was  enabled  to  descend  from  his  attic  story  in  the 
Inner  Temple,  and  to  purchase  for  400/.,  and  furnish  elegant- 
ly, a  spacious  set  of  chambers  on  the  first  floor,  at  No.  2, 
Brick-court,  Middle  Temple. 

On  the  establishment  of  the  Royal  Academy,  in  1769,  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  recommended  Goldsmith  to  his  Maji-sty  for 
the  Honorable  Professorship  of  History,  which  was  graciously 
conferred  on  him.  In  the  following  year  he  produced  that 
highly-finished  poem  called  the  '  Deserted  Village.'  Previ- 
ous to  its  publication,  we  are  told,  the  bookseller  (Mr.  Grif- 
fin, of  Catharine  street,  Strand),  had  given  him  a  note  of  a 
tmndred  guineas  for  the  copy.  This  circumstance  Goldsmith 
mentioned  soon  afterwards  to  a  friend,  who  observed  that  it 
was  a  large  sum  for  so  small  a  performance.  '  In  truth,'  re- 
plied Goldsmith,  '  I  think  so  too  ;  it  is  near  five  shillings  a 
couplet,  which  is  much  more  than  the  honest  man  can  afford, 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  21 

and,  indeed,  more  than  any  modern  poetry  is  worth.  I  have 
not  been  easy  since  I  received  it ;  I  will,  therefore,  go  back 
and  return  him  his  note ; '  which  he  actually  did  ;  but  the 
sale  was  so  rapid,  that  the  bookseller  soon  paid  him  the  hun- 
dred guineas  with  proper  acknowledgments  for  the  generos- 
ity of  his  conduct. 

Soon  after  the  appearance  of  the  Deserted  Village,  our 
author  paid  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Dr.  Parnell,  in  a  Life 
prefixed  to  a  new  edition  of  his  '  Poems  on  several  Occasions.' 
In  the  year  1771  he  produced  his  '  History  of  England,  from 
the  earliest  Times  to  the  Death  of  George  II.,'  in  4  vols.  8vo.; 
for  which  Mr.  Thomas  Davies,  the  bookseller,  paid  him  500£. 

The  Earl  of  Lisburne,  one  day  at  a  dinner  of  the  Royal 
Academicians,  lamented  to  Goldsmith  that  he  should  neglect 
the  muses  to  compile  histories,  and  write  novels,  instead  of 
penning  poetry  with  which  he  was  sure  to  charm  his  read- 
ers. 'My  lord/  replied  our  author,  'in  courting  the  muses  I 
should  starve ;  but  by  my  other  labors  I  eat,  drink,  wear 
good  clothes,  and  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  life. ' 

Goldsmith  had,  besides  h*s  regular  works,  much  of  the  oth- 
er business  of  an  author  by  profession  ;  such  as  penning  Pref- 
aces and  Introductions  to  the  books  of  other  writers ;  some 
of  these  have  been  published  among  his  prose  works;  but, 
no  doubt,  many  remain  at  this  day  unknown. 

His  second  dramatic  effort,  being  a  comedy  called  'She 
(Stoops  to  Conquer ;  or,  The  Mistakes  of  a  Night/  was  first 
presented  at  Covent-garden  theatre,  March  15, 1773,  and  re- 
ceived with  an  applause  fully  adequate  to  the  author's  san- 
guine hopes,  and  contrary  to  the  expectations  of  M.  Colman, 
who  had  not  consented  to  receive  the  piece  but  at  the  earnest 
and  reiterated  instances  of  many  friends.  Wh*»t  was  called 


22 


AIKIN  S    MEMOIRS    OF 


sentimental  comedy  Lad  at  that  time  got  an  unaccountable 
hold  of  the  public  taste  ;  Kelly  was  subserving  this  un-Brit- 
ish  propensity  by  his  '  False  Delicacy/  etc.,  and  Goldsmith's 
piece  (which  was  designed  by  him  to  bring  back  the  town  to 
a  relish  of  humor),  being  certainly  in  the  opposite  extreme, 
and  hardly  anything  else  than  a  farce  of  five  acts  instead  of 
two,  Column,  and  his  actors  from  him,  had  predestined  the 
play  to  condemnation  ;  when,  therefore,  towards  the  conclu. 
sion  of  the  first  performance,  the  author  expressed  some  ap- 
prehension lest  one  of  the  jokes  put  into  the  mouth  of  Tony 
Lumpkin  should  not  be  relished  by  the  audience,  the  man- 
ager, who  had  been  in  fear  through  the  whole  piece,  replied, 
'  D — n  it,  Doctor,  don't  be  terrified  at  a  squib  ;  why,  we  have 
been  sitting  these  two  hours  on  a  barrel  of  gunpowder.' 
Goldsmith's  pride  was  so  hurt  at  this  remark,  that  the  friend- 
ship  which  had  till  then  subsisted  between  him  and  Coluian, 
was  thenceforth  annihilated. 

The  piece  had  a  great  run,  and  the  author  cleared  by  the 
third-nights,  and  the  sale  of  the  copy,  upwards  of  800£.  Dr. 
Johnson  said  of  it,  '  That  he  knew  of  no  comedy  for  many 
years  that  had  so  much  exhilarated  an  audience,  that  had  an- 
swered so  much  the  great  end  of  comedy, —  the  making  an 
audience  merry.'  It  certainly  added  much  to  the  author's 
reputation,  and  is  still,  with  his  '  Good-natured  Man/  on 
the  list  of  acting  plays ;  but  it  brought  on  him  the  envy  and 
malignity  of  some  of  his  contemporaries  :  and  in  the  London 
Packet  of  Wednesday,  March  24,  1773,  printed  for  T.  Evans, 
in  Paternoster-row,  appeared  the  following  scurrilous  epistle, 
evidently  designed  to  injure  his  third-night  (being  the  nintb 
representation) : — 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  23 

«TO  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

'  Vous  vous  noyez  en  vanite. 

-Sir. —  The  happy  knack  which  you  have  learnt  of  puffing 
pour  own  compositions,  provokes  me  to  come  forth.  You 
have  not  been  the  editor  of  newspapers  and  magazines,  not 
to  discover  the  trick  of  literary  humbug.  But  the  gauze  is  so 
thin,  that  the  very  foolish  part  of  the  world  see  through  it, 
and  discover  the  Doctor's  monkey  face  and  cloven  foot.  Tour 
poetic  vanity  is  as  unpardonable  as  your  personal.  Would 
man  believe  it,  and  will  woman  bear  it,  to  be  told  that  for 
hours  the  great  Goldsmith  will  stand  surveying  his  grotesque 
Oranhotan's  figure  in  a  pier-glass?  Was  but  the  lovely  H — k 
as  much  enamored,  you  would  not  sigh,  my  gentle  swain,  in 
vain.  But  your  vanity  is  preposterous.  How  will  this  same 
bard  of  Bedlam  ring  the  changes  in  praise  of  Goldy !  But 
what  has  he  to  be  either  proud  or  vain  of?  The  "  Traveller  " 
is  a  flimsy  poem,  built  upon  false  principles ;  principles  diamet- 
rically opposite  to  liberty.  What  is  the  "Good-natured 
Man  "  but  a  poor  water-gruel,  dramatic  dose  ?  What  is  "  The 
Deserted  Village  "  but  a  pretty  poem  of  easy  numbers,  with- 
out fancy,  dignity,  genius,  or  fire  ?  And  pray  what  may  be 
the  last  speaking  pantomime,*  so  praised  by  the  Doctor  him- 
self, but  an  incoherent  piece  of  stuff,  the  figure  of  a  woman 
with  a  fish's  tail,  without  plot,  incident,  or  intrigue?  We  are 
made  to  laugh  at  stale,  dull  jokes,  wherein  we  mistake  pleas- 
antry for  wit,  and  grimace  for  humor,  wherein  every  scene 
is  unnatural,  and  inconsistent  with  the  rules,  the  laws  of  na- 
ture, and  of  the  drama ;  viz.  Two  gentlemen  come  to  a  man 
of  fortune's  house,  eat,  drink,  sleep,  etc.,  and  take  it  for  an 

*  Moaning  '  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.' 


24  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

mn  The  one  is  intended  as  a  lover  to  the  daughter  ;  he 
talks  with  her  for  some  hours,  and  when  he  sees  her  again  in 
a  different  dress,  he  treats  her  as  a  bar  girl,  and  swears  she 
squinted.  He  abuses  the  master  of  the  house,  and  threatens 
to  kick  him  out  of  his  own  doors.  The  'Squire,  whom  we 
are  told  is  to  be  a  fool,  proves  to  be  the  most  sensible  being 
of  the  piece ;  and  he  makes  out  a  whole  act  by  bidding  his 
mother  lie  close  behind  a  bush,  persuading  her  that  his  father, 
her  own  husband,  is  a  highwayman,  and  that  he  is  come  to 
cut  their  throats  ;  and  to  give  his  cousin  an  opportunity  to  go 
off,  he  drives  his  mother  over  hedges,  ditches,  and  through 
ponds.  There  is  not,  sweet,  sucking  Johnson,  a  natural  stroke 
in  the  whole  play,  but  the  young  fellow's  giving  the  stolen 
jewels  to  the  mother,  supposing  her  to  be  the  landlady. 
That  Mr.  Colman  did  no  justice  to  this  piece,  I  honestly 
allow  ;  that  he  told  all  his  friends  it  would  be  damned,  I  pos- 
itively aver ;  and  from  such  ungenerous  insinuations,  with- 
out a  dramatic  merit,  it  rose  to  public  notice  ;  and  it  is  now 
the  ton  to  go  to  see  it,  though  I  never  saw  a  person  that 
either  liked  it  or  approved  it,  any  more  than  the  absurd  plot 
of  the  Home's  tragedy  of  Alonzo.  Mr.  Goldsmith,  correct 
your  arrogance,  reduce  your  vanity,  and  endeavor  to  believe, 
as  a  man,  you  are  of  the  plainest  sort ;  and  as  an  author,  but 
a  mortal  piece  of  mediocrity.' 

'  Brisez  le  miroir  infidele, 
Qui  vous  cache  la  verite. 

4  TOM  TICKLE.' 

By  one  of  those  '  d d  good-natured  friends,'  who  are 

described  by  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  the  newspaper  containing 
tiie  foregoing  offensive  letter  was  eagerly  brought  to  Gold- 
smith, who  otherwise,  perhaps,  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  it. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  25 

Our  hero  went  to  the  shop  brimfull  of  ire,  and  finding  Evans 
behind  his  counter,  thus  addressed  him  :  '  You  have  published 
a  thing  in  your  paper  (my  name  is  Goldsmith)  reflecting  upon 
a  young  lady.  As  for  myself  I  do  not  mind  it.' — Evans  at 
this  moment  stooped  down,  intending  probably  to  look  for  a 
paper,  that  he  might  see  what  the  enraged  author  meant, 
when  Goldsmith,  observing  his  back  to  present  a  fair  mark 
for  his  cane,  laid  it  on  lustily.  The  bibliopolist,  however, 
soon  defended  himself,  and  a  scuffle  ensued,  in  which  our 
author  got  his  full  share  of  blows.  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  was  sit- 
ting in  Evans's  counting-house,  (and  who  was  strongly  sus- 
pected to  have  been  the  writer  of  the  letter),  now  came  for- 
ward, parted  the  combatants,  and  sent  Goldsmith  home  in  a 
coach,  grievously  bruised. 

This  attack  upon  a  man,  in  his  own  house,  furnished  mat- 
ter of  discussion  for  some  days  to  the  newspapers ;  and  an 
action  at  law  was  threatened  to  be  brought  for  the  assault ; 
but  by  the  interposition  of  friends  the  affair  was  compro- 
mised ;  and  on  Wednesday,  the  31st  of  March,  Goldsmith  in- 
serted the  following  Address  in  the  Daily  Advertiser :  — 

CTO  THE   PUBLIC. 

'  LEST  it  should  be  supposed  that  I  have  been  willing  to 
correct  in  others  an  abuse  of  which  I  have  been  guilty  my- 
self, I  beg  leave  to  declare  that  in  all  my  life  I  never  wrote 
or  dictated  a  single  paragraph,  letter,  or  essay,  in  a  newspa- 
per, except  a  few  moral  essays,  under  the  character  of  a  Chi- 
nese, about  ten  years  ago,  in  the  Ledger ;  and  a  letter,  to 
which  I  signed  my  name,  iu  the  St.  James's  Chronicle.  If  the 
liberty  of  the  press,  therefore,  has  been  abused,  I  have  had 
no  hand  in  it. 

I 


26  AIKIN'S    MEMOIRS    OF 

•  I  have  always  considered  the  press  as  the  protector  of  our 
freedom,  as  a  watchful  guardian,  capable  of  uniting  the  weak 
against  the  encroachments  of  power.  What  concerns  the 
public  most  properly  admits  of  a  public  discussion.  But  of 
late,  the  press  has  turned  from  defending  public  interest,  to 
making  inroads  upon  private  life  ;  from  combating  the  strong 
to  overwhelming  the  feeble.  No  condition  is  now  too  obscure 
for  its  abuse,  and  the  protector  is  become  the  tyrant  of  the 
people.  In  this  manner  the  freedom  of  the  press  is  begin- 
ning to  sow  the  seeds  of  its  own  dissolution  ;  the  great  must 
oppose  it  from  principle,  and  the  weak  from  fear ;  till  at  last 
every  rank  of  mankind  shall  be  found  to  give  up  its  benefits, 
content  with  security  from  its  insults. 

'  How  to  put  a  stop  to  this  licentiousness,  by  which  all  are 
indiscriminately  abused,  and  by  which  vice  consequently  es- 
capes in  the  general  censure,  I  am  unable  to  tell ;  all  I  could 
wish  is,  that,  as  the  law  gives  us  no  protection  against  the  in- 
jury, so  it  should  give  calumniators  no  shelter  after  having 
provoked  correction.  The  insults  which  we  receive  before 
the  public,  by  being  more  open,  are  the  more  distressing.  By 
treating  them  with  silent  contempt,  we  do  not  pay  a  sufficient 
deference  to  the  opinion  of  the  world.  By  recurring  to  legal 
redress,  we  too  often  expose  the  weakness  of  the  law,  which 
only  serves  to  increase  our  mortification  by  failing  to  relieve 
us.  In  sLort,  every  man  should  singly  consider  himself  as  a 
guardian  of  the  liberty  of  tl;o  press,  and,  as  far  as  his  influ- 
ence can  extend,  should  endeavor  to  prevent  its  licentious 
ness  becoming  at  last  the  grave  of  its  freedom. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.' 

Mr.  Boswell  having  intimated  to  Dr.  Johnson  his  suspicions 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  27 

that  he  was  the  real  writer  of  this  Address,  the  latter  said, 
'  Sir,  Dr.  Goldsmith  would  no  more  have  asked  me  to  have 
written  such  a  thing  as  that  for  him,  than  he  would  have 
asked  me  to  feed  him  with  a  spoon,  or  to  do  anything  else 
that  denoted  his  imbecility.  I  as  much  believe  that  he  wrote 
it,  as  if  I  had  seen  him  do  it.  Sir,  had  he  shewn  it  to  any 
one  friend,  he  would  not  have  been  allowed  to  publish  it. 
He  has  indeed  done  it  very  well ;  but  it  is  a  foolish  thing 
well  done.  I  suppose  he  has  been  so  much  elated  with  the 
success  of  his  new  comedy,  that  he  has  thought  everything 
that  concerns  him  must  be  of  importance  to  the  public.' 

About  a  month  after  this,  to  oblige  Mr.  Quick,  the  come- 
dian, who  had  very  successfully  exerted  himself  in  the  char- 
acter of  Tony  Lumpkin,  Goldsmith,  we  believe,  reduced  Sed- 
ley's 'Grumbler '  to  a  farce:  and  it  was  performed  for  Mr. 
Quick's  benefit  on  the  8th  of  May,  but  was  never  printed ; 
indeed,  some  persons  doubt  whether  Goldsmith  did  more 
than  revise  an  alteration  which  had  been  made  by  some 
other  person. 

Our  author  now,,oddly  enough,  took  it  into  his  head  to  re- 
ject the  title  of  Doctor  (with  which  he  had  been  self-invest- 
ed), and  to  assume  the  plain  address  of  Mr.  Goldsmith ;  but 
whatever  his  motive  to  this  might  be,  he.  could  not  effect  it 
with  the  public,  who  to  the  day  of  his  death  called  him  Doc- 
tor ;  and  the  same  title  is  usually  annexed  to  his  name  even 
now,  though  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Physic  was  the  high- 
est ever  actually  conferred  upon  him. 

After  having  compiled  a  History  of  Rome,  and  two  Histo- 
ries of  England,  he  undertook,  and  completed,  in  1773,  '  A 
History  of  the  Earth  and  Animated  Nature,'  in  8  vols.  8vo., 
which  was  printed  in  1774,  and  he  received  for  it  850Z. 


28  AIKIN'S  MEMOIR*  OF 

The  emoluments  whicli  he  had  derived  from  his  vrritings 
for  some  few  years  past  were,  indeed,  very  considerable ;  but 
were  rendered  useless  in  effect,  by  an  incautious  liberality, 
which  prevented  his  distinguishing  proper  from  improper  ob- 
jects of  his  bounty ;  and  also  by  an  unconquerable  itch  for 
gaming,  a  pursuit  in  which  his  impatience  of  temper,  and  hi? 
want  of  skill,  wholly  disqualified  him  for  succeeding. 

His  last  production,  'Retaliation,'  was  written  for  his  own 
amusement  and  that  of  his  friends  who  were  the  subjects  of 
it.  That  he  did  not  live  to  finish  it  is  to  be  lamented  ;  for 
it  is  supposed  that  he  would  have  introduced  more  characters. 
What  he  has  left,  however,  is  nearly  perfect  in  its  kind ;  with 
wonderful  art  he  has  traced  all  the  leading  features  of  his 
several  portraits,  and  given  with  truth  the  characteristic  pe- 
culiarities of  each  ;  no  man  is  lampooned,  no  man  is  natter- 
ed. The  occasion  of  the  poem  was  a  circumstance  of  festiv- 
ity. A  literary  party  with  which  he  occasionally  dined  at  the 
St.  James's  coffee-house,  one  day  proposed  to  write  epitaphs  on 
hiin.  In  these  his  person,  dialect,  etc.,  were  good-humoredly 
ridiculed :  and  as  Goldsmith  could  not  disguise  his  feelings 
on  the  occasion,  he  was  called  upon  for  a  Retaliation,  which 
he  produced  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  party ;  but  this,  with 
his  'Haunch  of  Venison,'  and  some  other  short  poems,  were 
not  printed  till  after  his  death. 

He  had  at  this  time  ready  for  the  press  'The  Grecian  His- 
tory, from  the  earliest  State  to  the  Death  of  Alexander  the 
Great,'  which  was  afterwards  printed  in  2  vols.  8vo.  He  had 
also  formed  a  design  of  compiling  a  '  Universal  Dictionary  of 
Arts  and  Sciences,'  a  prospectus  of  which  he  printed  and  sent 
to  his  friends,  many  of  whom  had  promised  to  furnish  him 
with  articles  on  different  subjects.  The  booksellers,  however, 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  29 

though  they  had  a  high  opinion  of  his  abilities,  were  startled 
at  the  bulk,  importance,  and  expense  of  so  great  an  under- 
taking, the  execution  of  which  was  to  depend  upon  a  man 
with  whose  indolence  of  temper,  and  method  of  procrastina- 
tion, they  had  long  been  acquainted ;  the  coldness  with  which 
they  met  his  proposals  was  lamented  by  Goldsmith  to  the  hour 
of  his  death,  which  seems  to  have  been  accelerated  by  a  ne- 
glect of  his  health,  occasioned  by  continual  vexation  of  rnind, 
on  account  of  his  frequently  involved  circumstances,  although 
the  last  year's  produce  of  his  labor  is  generally  believed  to 
have  amounted  to  180(M. 

In  the  spring  of  1774  he  was  attacked  in  a  very  severe 
manner  by  the  stranguary,  a  disease  of  which  he  had  often  ex- 
perienced slight  symptoms.  It  now  induced  a  nervous  fever, 
which  required  medical  assistance,  and  on  the  2oth  of  March 
he  sent  for  his  friend  Mr.  (afterwards  Dr.)  Hawes,  to  whom 
he  related  the  symptoms  of  his  malady,  expressing  at  the  same 
time  a  disgust  with  life  and  a  despondency  which  did  not  well 
become  a  man  of  his  understanding.  He  told  Mr.  Hawes  that 
lie  had  taken  two  ounces  of  ipecacuanha  wine  as  an  emetic, 
and  that  it  was  his  intention  to  take  Dr.  James's  fever  pow- 
ders, which  he  desired  he  would  send  him.  Mr.  Hawes  rep- 
resented to  his  patient  the  impropriety  of  taking  the  medi- 
cine at  that  time,  but  no  argument  could  induce  him  to  re- 
linquish his  intention.  Finding  this,  and  justly  apprehen- 
sive of  the  fatal  consequences  of  his  putting  this  rash  resolve 
in  execution,  he  requested  permission  to  send  for  Dr.  Fordyce, 
of  whose  medical  abilities  he  knew  that  Goldsmith  had  the 
highest  opinion.  Dr.  Fordyce  came,  and  corroborated  the 
apothecary's  assertion,  adding  every  argument  that  he  could 
think  of  to  dissuade  Mm  from  using  the  powders  in  the  pre* 
3* 


30  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

ent  case  ;  but  deaf  to  all  the  remonstrances  of  his  physician 
and  his  friend,  he  obstinately  persisted  in  his  resolution. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Hawes  again  visited  his  patient,  and  in- 
quiring of  him  how  he  did,  Goldsmith  sighed  deeply,  and  in 
a  dejected  tone  said,  '  I  wish  I  had  taken  your  friendly  ad- 
vice last  night.'  Dr  Fordyce  came,  and,  finding  the  alarm- 
ing symptoms  increase,  desired  Mr.  Hawes  to  propose  send- 
ing for  Dr.  Turton :  to  this  Goldsmith  readily  assented.  The 
two  physicians  met,  and  held  consultations  twice  a  day  till 
Monday,  April  4th,  when  their  patient  died. 

Warmth  of  affection  induced  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and 
other  friends  of  Goldsmith  to  lay  a  plan  for  a  sumptuous 
public  frneral ;  according  to  which  he  was  to  have  been  in- 
terred in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  his  pall  to  have  been  sup- 
ported by  Lord  Shelburne  (afterwards  Marquis  of  Lans- 
downe),  Lord  Louth,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Mr.  Edmund 
Burke,  the  Hon.  Topham  Beauclerc,  and  Mr.  Garrick  ;  but  on 
a  slight  inspection  of  his  affairs,  it  was  found  that,  so  far  from 
having  left  property  to  justify  so  expensive  a  proceeding,  he 
was  about  200£.  in  debt.  The  original  intention,  therefore, 
was  abandoned,  and  he  was  privately  interred  in  the  Temple 
burial-ground  at  five  o'clock  on  Saturday  evening,  April  9th, 
attended  by  the  Rev.  Joseph  Palmer  (nephew  of  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  and  afterwards  Dean  of  Cashel  in  Ireland),  Mr. 
Hugh  Kelly,  Mr.  (afterwards  Dr.)  Hawes,  Messrs.  John  and 
Robert  Day,  and  Mr.  Etherington.  * 

A  subscription,  however,  was  speedily  raised  among  Gold- 
smith's friends,  but  chiefly  by  the  Literary  Club  ;  and  a  mar- 
ble monumental  stone,  executed  by  Nollekens,  consisting  of  a 
large  medallion,  exhibiting  a  good  resemblance  of  our  author 
in  profile,  embellished  with  appropriate  ornaments,  was  plac- 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  31 

ed  in  Westminster  Abbey,  between  those  of  Gay  the  poet 
and  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  in  Poet's  Corner;  having  under- 
neath, on  a  tablet  of  white  marble,  the  following  inscription, 
from  the  pen  of  his  friend.  Dr.  Johnson  :  — 

OLIVARII  GOLDSMITH, 

Poetae,  Physici,  Historic!, 

Qui  nullum  fere  scribendi  genus 

Non  tetigit  ; 

Nullum  quod  tetigit  non  ornavit : 
give  risus  essent  movendi 

Sive  lacrymae, 

Affectuum  potens  et  lenis  dominator, 

Ingenio  sublimis,  vividus,  versatilis, 

Oratione  grandis,  nitidus,  venustus 

Hoc  monumento  memoriam  coluit 

Sodalium  amor, 

Amicorum  fides, 

Lectorum  veneratio. 

Natus  in  Hibernia,  Forneise  Longfordiensis, 
In  loco  cui  nomen  Pallas, 
Nov.  xxix,  MDCCXXXI.* 
Eblanse  literis  institutus, 

Obiit  Londini, 
Apr.  iv,  MDCCLXXIV. 

Of  which  the  following  is  a  translation  :  — - 

By  the  love  of  his  associates, 
The  fidelity  of  his  friends, 
And  the  veneration  of  his  readers, 
This  monument  is  raised 

*  Johnson  had  been  misinformed  in  these  particulars :  it  has  been 
since  ascertained  that  he  was  born  at  Elphin,  in  the  county  of  ROB* 
common,  Nov.  29, 1728. 


32  .    AIKIN'S   MEMOIRS  OF 

To  the  memory  of 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 

A  poet,  a  natural  philosopher,  and  an  historian, 

Who  left  no  species  of  writing  untouched  by  his  pen 

Nor  touched  any  that  he  did  not  embellish  : 

Whether  smiles  or  tears  were  to  be  excited, 

He  was  a  powerful  yet  gentle  master 

Over  the  affections  ; 
Of  a  genius  at  once  sublime,  lively,  and 

equal  to  every  subject  ; 
In  expression  at  once  lofty,  elegant,  and  graceful. 

He  was  born  in  the  kingdom  of  Ireland, 

At  a  place  called  Pallas,  in  the  parish  of  Forney, 

And  county  of  Longford, 

29th  Nov.  1731  * 
Educated  at  Dublin, 
And  died  in  London, 
4th  April,  1774. 

Beside  this  Latin  epitaph,  Dr  Johnson  honored  the  memo- 
ry of  Goldsmith  with  the  following  short  one  in  Greek  :  — 

Tov  Trujx.iv  £iaopda£  rov  OAtfiapioto,  Kovirjv 

A^poai  fii/  O£[ivr/v,  HeZye,  irofieaat 
Olffi  ftEftrjfe  Qvoif,  [itrpuv  ^dpi^,  Ipya 
TTOIJJTTJV,  iordptKov, 


Mr.  Boswell,  who  was  very  intimately  acquainted  with 
Goldsmith,  thus  speaks  of  his  person  and  character  :  — 

'  The  person  of  Goldsmith  was  short  ;  his  countenance 
coarse  and  vulgar  ;  his  deportment  that  of  a  scholar,  awk- 
wardly affecting  the  complete  gentleman.  No  man  had  the 
art  of  displaying,  with  more  advantage,  whatever  literary  ac- 
quisitions he  made.  His  mind  resembled  a  fertile  but  thin 
Boil  ;  there  was  a  quick  but  not  a  strong  vegetation  of  what- 

*8ee  the  Note  on  the  proceeding  page. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  33 

ever  chanced  to  be  thrown  upon  it.  No  deep  root  could  be 
struck.  The  oak  of  the  forest  did  not  grow  there ;  but  the 
elegant  shrubbery,  and  the  fragrant  parterre,  appeared  in  gay 
succession.  It  has  been  generally  circulated,  and  believed, 
that  he  was  a  mere  fool  in  conversation.  In  allusion  to  this, 
Mr.  Horatio  Walpole,  who  admired  his  writings,  said,  he  was 
"  an  inspired  idiot ; "  and  Garrick  describes  him  as  one, — 


for  shortness  called  Noll, 


Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  and  talk'd  like  poor  Poll." 

But  in  reality  these  descriptions  are  greatly  exaggerated.  He 
had  no  doubt  a  more  than  common  share  of  that  hurry  of 
ideas  which  we  often  find  in  his  countrymen,  and  which 
sometimes  introduces  a  laughable  confusion  in  expressing 
them.  He  was  very  much  what  the  French  call  un  etourdi : 
and  from  vanity  and  an  eager  desire  of  being  conspicuous 
wherever  he  was,  he  frequently  talked  carelessly,  without 
any  knowledge  of  the  subject,  or  even  without  thought.  Those 
who  were  any  ways  distinguished,  excited  envy  in  him  to  so 
ridiculous  an  excess,  that  the  instances  of  it  are  hardly  credi- 
ble. He,  I  am  told,  had  no  settled  system  of  any  sort,  so  that 
his  conduct  must  not  be  too  strictly  criticised  ;  but  his  affec- 
tions were  social  and  generous  ;  and  when  he  had  money,  he 
bestowed  it  liberally.  His  desires  of  imaginary  consequence 
frequently  predominated  over  his  attention  to  truth. 

'  His  prose  has  been  admitted  as  the  model  of  perfection, 
and  the  standard  of  the  English  language.  Dr.  Johnson  says, 
"  Goldsmith  was  a  man  of  such  variety  of  powers,  and  such 
felicity  of  performance,  that  he  seemed  to  excel  in  whatever 
he  attempted ;  a  man  who  had  the  art  of  being  minute  with- 
out tediousness,  and  generally  without  confusion ;  whose  Ian- 


34  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

guage  was  capacious  without  exuberance  ;  exact  without  re 
straint ;  and  easy  without  weakness." 

r~'His  merit  as  a  poet  is  universally  acknowledged.  His 
writings  partake  rather  of  the  elegance  and  harmony  of  Pope, 
than  the  grandeur  and  sublimity  of  Milton  ;  and  it  is  to  be 
lamented  that  his  poetical  productions  are  not  more  numer- 
ous ;  for  though  his  ideas  flowed  rapidly,  he  arranged  them 
with  great  caution,  and  occupied  much  time  in  polishing  his 
periods,  and  harmonizing  his  numbers. 

'His  most  favorite  poems  are,  "  The  Traveller,"  "  Deserted 
Village,"  "  Hermit,"  and  "  Retaliation."  These  productions 
may  be  justly  ranked  with  the  most  admired  works  in  Eng- 
lish poetry. 

4  •'  The  Traveller  "  delights  us  with  a  display  of  charming 
imagery,  refined  ideas,  and  happy  expressions.  The  charac- 
teristics of  the  different  nations  are  strongly  marked,  and  the 
predilection  of  each  inhabitant  in  favor  of  his  own  ingenious- 
ly described. 

' "  The  Deserted  Village  "  is  generally  admired  ;  the  char- 
acters are  drawn  from  the  life.  The  descriptions  are  lively 
and  picturesque  ;  and  the  whole  appears  so  easy  and  natural, 
as  to  bear  the  semblence  of  historical  truth  more  than  poeti- 
cal fiction.  The  description  of  the  parish  priest,  (probably 
intended  for  a  character  of  his  brother  Henry)  would  have 
done  honor  to  any  poet  of  any  age.  In  this  description,  the 
simile  of  the  bird  teaching  her  young  to  fly,  and  of  the  moun- 
tain that  rises  above  the  storm,  are  not  easily  to  be  paralleled. 
The  rest  of  the  poem  consists  of  the  character  of  the  village 
schoolmaster,  and  a  description  of  the  village  alehouse  ;  both 
drawn  with  admirable  propriety  and  force ;  a  descant  on  the 
mischiefs  of  luxury  and  wealth ;  the  variety  of  artificial  pleas 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  35 

ures;  the  miseries  of  those  who,  for  want  of  employment  at 
home,  are  driven  to  settle  new  colonies  abroad ;  and  con 
eludes  with  a  beautiful  apostrophe  to  poetry. 

' "  The  Hermit "  holds  equal  estimation  with  the  rest  o\ 
his  poetical  productions. 

'His  last  poem,  of  "  Retaliation,"  is  replete  with  humor, 
free  from  spleen,  and  forcibly  exhibits  the  prominent  features 
of  the  several  characters  to  which  it  alludes.  Dr.  Johnson 
sums  up  his  literary  character  in  the  following  concise  man- 
ner :  "  Take  him  [Goldsmith]  as  a  poet,  his  '  Traveller '  is  a 
very  fine  performance  ;  and  so  is  his  '  Deserted  Village/  were 
it  not  sometimes  too  much  the  echo  of  his  '  Traveller.' 
Whether  we  take  him  as  a  poet,  as  a  comic  writer,  or  as  an 
historian,  he  stands  in  the  first  class." ' 

We  Lave  before  observed,  that  his  poeiu  of '  RETALIATION  ' 
was  provoked  by  several  jocular  epitaphs  written  upon  him 
by  the  different  members  of  a  dinner  club  to  which  he  be- 
longed. Of  these  we  subjoin  a  part  of  that  which  was  pro- 
duced by  Garrick :  — 

<  Here,  Hermes,  says  Jove,  who  with  nectar  was  mellow, 
Go,  fetch  me  some  clay — I  will  make  an  odd  fellow. 
Right  and  wrong  shall  be  jumbled  ;  much  gold  and  some  dross  j 
Without  cause  be  he  pleased,  without  cause  be  he  cross  ; 
Be  sure,  as  I  work,  to  throw  in  contradictions  ; 
A  great  lover  of  truth,  yet  a  mind  turned  to  fictions. 
Now  mix  these  ingredients,  which,  warm'd  in  the  baking, 
Turn  to  learning  and  gaming,  religion  and  raking  ; 
With  the  love  of  a  wench,  let  his  writings  be  chaste, 
Tip  his  tongue  with  strange  matter,  his  pen  with  fine  taste  j 
That  the  rake  and  the  poet  o'er  all  may  prevail, 
Set  fire  to  his  head,  and  set  fire  to  his  tail ; 
For  the  joy  of  each  sex  on  the  world  I'll  bestow  it, 
This  scholar,  rake,  Christian,  dupe,  gamester,  and  poet. 


36  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

Though  a  mixture  so  odd,  he  shall  merit  great  fame, 
And  among  other  mortals  be  Goldsmith  his  name. 
When  on  earth  this  strange  meteor  no  more  shall  appear, 
You,  Hermes,  shall  fetch  him,  to  make  us  sport  here. 

To  these  we  shall  add  another  sketch  of  our  author  (by 
way  of  Epitaph),  written  by  a  friend  as  soon  as  he  heard  of 
his  death ;  — 

4  Here  rests  from  the  cares  of  the  world  and  his  pen, 
A  poet  whose  like  we  shall  scarce  meet  again ; 
Who,  though  formed  in  an  age  when  corruptions  ran  high, 
And  folly  alone  seem'd  with  folly  to  vie ; 
When  Genius  with  traffic  too  commonly  train'd, 
Recounted  her  merits  by  what  she  had  gain'd, 
Yet  spurn'd  at  those  walks  of  debasement  and  pelf. 
And  in  poverty's  spite  dared  to  think  for  himself. 
Thus  freed  from  those  fetti-rs  the  muses  oft  bind, 
He  wrote  from  the  heart  to  the  hearts  of  mankind; 
And  such  was  the  prevalent  force  of  his  song, 
Sex,  ages,  and  parties,  he  drew  in  a  throng. 

1  The  lovers  —  't  was  theirs  to  esteem  and  commend, 
For  his  Hermit  had  proved  him  their  tutor  and  friend. 
The  stateman,  his  politic  passions  on  fire, 
Acknowledged  repose  from  the  charms  of  his  lyre. 
The  moralist  too  had  a  feel  for  his  rhymes, 
For  his  Essays  were  curbs  on  the  rage  of  the  times. 
Nay,  the  critic,  all  school'd  in  grammatical  sense, 
Who  looked  in  the  glow  of  description  for  tense, 
Reform'd  as  he  read,  fell  a  dupe  to  his  art, 
And  confess'd  by  his  eyes  what  he  felt  at  his  heart. 

'  Yet,  bless'd  with  original  powers  like  these, 
His  principal  forte  was  on  paper  to  please; 
Like  a  fleet  footed  hunter,  though  first  in  the  chase, 
On  the  road  of  plain  sense  he  oft  slackened  his  pace; 
Whilst  Dullness  and  Cunning,  by  whipping  and  goring, 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  37 

Their  hard-footed  haukneys  paraded  before  him. 

Compounded  likewise  of  such  primitive  parts, 

That  his  manners  alone  would  have  gain'd  him  our  hearts, 

So  simple  in  truth,  so  ingenuously  kind, 

So  ready  to  feel  for  the  wants  of  mankind; 

Yet  praise  but  au  author  of  popular  quill, 

This  lux  of  philanthropy  quickly  stood  still; 

Transform'd  from  himself,  he  grew  meanly  severe, 

And  rail'd  at  those  talents  ho  ought  not  to  fear. 

'  Such  then  were  his  foibles;  but  though  they  were  such 
As  shadow'd  the  picture  a  little  too  much, 
The  style  was  all  graceful,  expressive,  and  grand, 
And  the  whole  the  result  of  a  masterly  hand. 

'  Then  hear  me,  blest  spirit !  now  seated  above, 
Where  all  is  beatitude,  concord,  and  love, 
If  e'er  thy  regards  were  bestow'd  on  mankind, 

THY  MUSE  AS  A  LEGACY  LEAVE  US  BEHIND. 

I  ask  it  by  proxy  for  letters  and  fame, 

As  the  pride  of  our  heart  and  the  old  English  name. 

I  demand  it  as  such  for  virtue  and  truth, 

As  the  solafce  of  age  and  the  guide  of  our  youth. 

Consider  what  poets  surround  us  — how  dull! 

From  Minstrelsy  B e  to  Rosamond  H — 11 ! 

Consider  what  K— ys  enervate  the  stage ; 

Consider  what  K cks  may  poison  the  age ; 

O !  protect  us  from  such,  nor  let  it  be  said, 

That  in  Goldsmith  the  last  British  poet  lies  dead*' 


ON   THE 

POETRY     OF    DR.    GOLDSMITH. 
BY  DR.   ATKTN. 


Among  those  false  opinions  which,  having  once  obtained 
currency,  have  been  adopted  without  examination,  may  be 
reckoned  the  prevalent  notion,  that,  notwithstanding  the  im- 
provement of  this  country  in  many  species  of  literary  compo- 
sition, its  poetical  character  has  been  on  the  decline  ever  since 
the  supposed  Augustan  age  of  the  beginning  of  this  [the  18th] 
century.  No  one  poet,  it  is  true,  has  fully  succeeded  to  the 
laurel  of  Dry  den  or  Pope ;  but  if  without  prejudice  we  com- 
pare the  minor  poets  of  the  present  age  (minor,  I  mean,  with 
respect  to  the  quantity  not  the  quality  of  their  productions), 
with  those  of  any  former  period,  we  shall,  I  am  convinced, 
find  them  greatly  superior  not  only  in  taste  and  correctness, 
but  in  every  other  point  of  poetical  excellence.  The  works 
of  many  late  and  present  writers  might  be  confidently  appeal- 
ed to  in  proof  of  this  assertion ;  but  it  will  suffice  to  instance 
the  author  who  is  the  subject  of  the  present  Essay;  and  I 
cannot  for  a  moment  hesitate  to  place  the  name  of  GOLDSMITH 
as  a  poet,  above  that  of  Addison,  Parnell,  Tickell,  Congreve, 
Lansdown,  or  any  of  those  who  fill  the  greater  part  of  the 


ON  DR.  GOLDSMITH'S  POETRY.  39 

voluminous  collection  of  the  English  Poets.  Of  these,  the 
main  body  has  obtained  a  prescriptive  right  to  the  honor  of 
classical  writers  ;  while  their  works,  ranged  on  the  shelves  as 
necessary  appendages  to  a  modern  library,  are  rarely  taken 
down,  and  contribute  very  little  to  the  stock  of  literary 
amusement.  Whereas  the  pieces  of  GOLDSMITH  are  familiar 
companions ;  and  supply  passages  for  recollection,  when  our 
minds  are  either  composed  to  moral  reflection,  or  warmed  by 
strong  emotions  and  elevated  conceptions.  There  is,  I  ac- 
knowledge, much  of  habit  and  accident  in  the  attachments 
we  form  to  particular  writers  ;  yet  I  have  little  doubt,  that 
if  the  lovers  of  English  poetry  were  confined  to  a  small  selec- 
tion of  authors,  GOLDSMITH  would  find  a  place  in  the  favor- 
ite list  of  a  great  majority.  And  it  is,  I  think,  with  much 
justice  that  a  great  modern  critic  has  ever  regarded  this  con- 
currence of  public  favor  as  one  of  the  least  equivocal  tests  of 
uncommon  merit.  Some  kinds  of  excellence,  it  is  true,  will 
more  readily  be  recognized  than  others :  and  this  will  not 
always  be  in  proportion  to  the  degree  of  mental  power  em- 
ployed in  the  respective  productions:  but  he  who  obtains 
general  and  lasting  applause  in  any  work  of  art,  must  have 
happily  executed  a  design  judiciously  formed.  This  remark 
is  of  fundamental  consequence  in  estimating  the  poetry  of 
GOLDSMITH  ;  because  it  will  enable  us  to  hold  the  balance 
steady,  when  it  might  be  disposed  to  incline  to  the  superior 
claims  of  a  style  of  loftier  pretension,  and  more  brilliant 
reputation. 

Compared  with  many  poets  of  deserved  eminence,  GOLD-  j 
SMITH  will  appear  characterized  by  his  simplicity.  In  his  lan- 
guage will  be  found  few  of  those  figures  which  are  supposed 
*f  themselves  to  constitute  poetry ; — no  violent  transpositions; 


40  ON    THE    POETRY 

no  uncommon  meanings  and  constructions ;  no  epithets  drawn 
from  abstract  and  remote  ideas ;  no  coinage  of  new  words  by 
the  ready  mode  of  turning  nouns  into  verbs  ;  no  bold  prosopo- 
poeia, or  audacious  metaphor:  —  it  scarcely  contains  an  ex 
pression  which  might  not  be  used  in  eloquent  and  descrip- 
tive prose.  It  is  replete  with  imagery  ;  but  that  imagery  is 
drawn  from  obvious  sources,  and  rather  enforces  the  simple 
idea,  than  dazzles  by  new  and  unexpected  ones.  It  rejects  not 
common  words  and  phrases ;  and,  like  the  language  of  Dryden 
and  Otway,  is  thereby  rendered  the  more  forcible  and  pathet- 
ic. It  is  eminently  nervous  and  concise ;  and  hence  affords 
numerous  passages  which  dwell  on  the  memory.  With  re- 
spect  to  his  matter,  it  is  taken  from  human  life,  and  the  ob- 
jects of  nature.  It  does  not  body  forth  things  unknown,  and 
create  new  beings.  Its  humbler  purpose  is  to  represent  man- 
ners and  characters  as  they  really  exist ;  to  impress  strongly 
on  the  heart  moral  and  political  sentiments ;  and  to  fill  the 
imagination  with  a  variety  of  pleasing  or  affecting  objects 
selected  from  the  stores  of  nature.  If  this  be  not  the  highest 
department  of  poetry,  it  has  the  advantage  of  being  the  most 
universally  agreeable.^  To  receive  delight  from  the  sublime 
fictions  of  Milton,  the  allegories  of  Spenser,  the  learning  of 
Gray,  and  the  fancy  of  Collins,  the  mind  must  have  been  pre- 
pared by  a  course  of  particular  study  ;  and  perhaps,  at  a  cer- 
tain period  of  life,  when  the  judgment  exercises  a  severer 
scrutiny  over  the  sallies  of  the  imagination,  the  relish  for  ar- 
tificial beauties  will  always  abate,  if  not  entirely  desert  us. 
But  at  every  age,  and  with  every  degree  of  culture,  correct 
and  well-chosen  representations  of  nature  must  please.  We 
admire  them  when  young  ;  we  recur  to  them  when  old ;  and 
they  charm  us  till  nothing  longer  can  charm.  Farther,  in 
forming  a  scale  of  excellence  for  artists,  we  are  not  only  to 


OF    DR.    GOLDSMITH.  41 

consider  who  works  upon  the  noblest  design,  but  who  fills  his 
design  best.  It  is,  in  reality,  but  a  poor  excuse  for  a  slovenly 
performer  to  '  magnis  tamen  excidit  ausis;'  and  the  addition 
of  one  master-piece  of  any  kind  to  the  stock  of  art  is  a  great- 
er benefit  than  that  of  a  thousand  abortive  and  mis-shapen 
wonders. 

If  GOLDSMITH  then  be  referred  to  the  class  of  descriptive 
poets,  including  the  description  of  moral  as  well  as  of  physical 
nature,  it  will  next  be  important  to  inquire  by  what  means 
he  has  attained  the  rank  of  a  master  in  his  class.  Let  us  then 
observe  how  he  has  selected,  combined,  and  contrasted  his 
objects,  with  what  truth  and  strength  of  coloring  he  has  ex 
pressed  them,  and  to  what  end  and  purpose. 

As  poetry  and  eloquence  do  not  describe  by  an  exact  enu- 
meration of  every  circumstance,  it  is  necessary  to  select  cer- 
tain particulars  which  may  excite  a  sufficiently  distinct  im- 
age of  the  thing  to  be  represented.  In  this  selection,  the  great 
art  is  to  give  characteristic  marks,  whereby  the  object  may  at 
once  be  recognized,  without  being  obscured  in  a  mass  of  com- 
mon properties,  which  belong  equally  to  many  others.  Hence 
the  great  superiority  of  particular  images  to  general  ones  in 
description :  the  former  identify,  while  the  latter  disguise. 
Thus,  all  the  hackneyed  representations  of  the  country  in  the 
works  of  ordinary  versifiers,  in  which  groves,  and  rills,  and 
flowery  meads  are  introduced  just  as  the  rhyme  and  measure 
require,  present  nothing  to  the  fancy  but  an  indistinct  daub 
of  coloring,  in  which  all  the  diversity  of  nature  is  lost  and 
confounded.  To  catch  the  discriminating  features,  and  pres- 
ent them  bold  and  prominent,  by  lew  but  decisive  strokes,  is 
the  talent  of  a  master ;  and  it  will  not  be  easy  to  produce  a 
superior  to  GOLDSMITH  in  this  respect.  The  mind  is  nev*» 
4* 


42  OX    THE    POETRY 

In  doubt  as  to  the  meaning  of  his  figures,  nor  does  it  languish 
over  the  survey  of  trivial  and  unappropriated  circumstances. 
All  is  alive  — all  is  filled  — yet  all  is  clear. 

The  proper  combination  of  objects  refers  to  the  impression 
they  are  calculated  to  make  on  the  mind  ;  and  requires  that 
they  should  harmonize,  and  reciprocally  enforce  and  sustain 
each  other's  effect.  They  should  unite  in  giving  one  leading 
tone  to  the  imagination  ;  and  without  a  sameness  of  form, 
they  should  blend  in  an  uniformity  of  hue.  This,  too,  has 
very  successfully  been  attended  to  by  GOLDSMITH,  who  has 
not  only  sketched  his  single  figures  with  truth  and  spirit,  but 
has  combined  them  into  the  most  harmonious  and  impressive 
groups.  Nor  has  any  descriptive  poet  better  understood  the 
great  force  of  contrast,  in  setting  off  his  scenes,  and  prevent- 
ing any  approach  to  wearisomeness  by  repetition  of  kindred 
objects.  And,  with  great  skill,  he  has  contrived  that  both 
parts  of  his  contrast  should  conspire  in  producing  one  intend- 
ed moral  effect.  Of  all  these  excellences,  examples  will  be 
pointed  out  as  we  take  a  cursory  view  of  the  particular  pieces. 

In  addition  to  the  circumstances  already  noted,  deforce 
and  clearness  of  representation  depend  also  on  the  diction.  It 
has  already  been  observed,  that  GOLDSMITH'S  language  is  re- 
markable for  its  general  simplicity,  and  the  direct  and  proper 
use  of  words.  It  has  ornaments,  but  these  are  not  far-fetched 
The  epithets  employed  are  usually  qualities  strictly  belonging 
to  the  subject,  and  the  true  coloring  of  the  simple  figure.  They 
are  frequently  contrived  to  express  a  necessary  circumstance 
in  the  description,  and  thus  avoid  the  usual  imputation  of 
being  expletive.  Of  this  kind  are  '  the  rattling  terrors  of  the 
vengeful  snake ; '  '  indurated  heart ; '  '  shed  intolerable  day ; ' 
'  matted  woods  ; '  '  ventrous  ploughshare  ; '  'equinoctial  fer- 
vors.' The  examples  are  not  few  of  that  indisputable  mart 


OF    DR.    GOLDSMITH.  43 

of  true  poetic  language,  where  a  single  word  conveys  an  im- 
age ;  as  in  these  instances :  'resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ;' 
'  scoops  out  an  empire  ; '  '  the  vessel,  idly  waiting,  flaps  with 
every  gale ; '  'to  winnow  fragrance  ; '  '  murmurs  fluctuate  in 
the  gale.'  All  metaphor,  indeed,  does  this  in  some  degree ; 
but  where  the  accessory  idea  is  either  indistinct  or  incongru- 
ous, as  frequently  happens  when  it  is  introduced  as  an  arti- 
fice to  force  language  up  to  poetry,  the  effect  is  only  a  gaudy 
obscurity. 

The  end  and  purpose  to  which  description  is  directed  is 
what  distinguishes  a  well-planned  piece  from  a  loose  effusion ; 
for  though  a  vivid  representation  of  striking  objects  will  ever 
afford  some  pleasure,  yet  if  aim  and  design  be  wanting,  to 
give  it  a  basis,  and  stamp  it  with  the  dignity  of  meaning,  it 
will  in  a  long  performance  prove  flat  and  tiresome.  But  this 
is  a  want  which  cannot  he  charged  on  GOLDSMITH  ;  for  both 
the  Traveller  and  the  Deserted  Village  have  a  great  moral  in 
view,  to  which  the  whole  of  the  description  is  made  to  tend. 
I  do  not  now  inquire  into  the  legitimacy  of  the  conclusions 
he  has  drawn  from  his  premises;  it  is  enough  to  justify  his 
Lplans,  that  such  a  purpose  is  included  in  them. 
(  The  versification  of  GOLDSMITH  is  formed  on  the  general 
niDdel  that  has  been  adopted  since  the  refinement  of  English 
poetry,  and  especially  since  the  time  of  Pope.  To  manage 
rhyme  couplets  so  as  to  produce  a  pleasing  effect  on  the  ear 
has  since  that  period  been  so  common  an  attainment,  that  it 
merits  no  particular  admiration.  GOLDSMITH  may,  I  think, 
be  said  to  have  come  up  to  the  usual  standard  of  proficiency 
in  this  respect,  without  having  much  surpassed  it.  A  musical 
ear,  and  a  familiarity  with  the  best  examples,  have  enabled 
him,  without  much  apparent  study,  almost  always  to  avoid 


44  ON    THE    POETRY 

defect,  and  very  often  to  produce  excellence.  It  is  no  censura 
of  this  poet  to  say  that  his  versification  presses  less  on  the 
attention  than  his  matter.  In  fact  ho  has  none  of  those  pe- 
culiarities of  versifying,  whether  improvements  or  not,  that 
some  who  aim  at  distinction  in  this  point  have  adopted.  He 
generally  suspends  or  closes  the  sense  at  the  end  of  the  line 
or  of  the  couplet ;  and  therefore  does  not  often  give  exam- 
ples of  that  greater  compass  and  variety  of  melody  which  is 
obtained  by  longer  clauses,  or  by  breaking  the  coincidences 
of  the  cadence  of  sound  and  meaning.  He  also  studiously 
rejects  triplets  and  alexandrines.  But  allowing  for  the  want 
of  these  sources  of  variety,  he  has  sufficiently  avoided  monot- 
ony ;  and  in  the  usual  flow  of  his  measure,  he  has  gratified 
the  ear  with  as  much  change,  as  judiciously  shifting  the  line- 
pause  can  produce. 

Having  made  these  general  observations  on  the  nature  of 
GOLDSMITH'S  poetry,  I  proceed  to  a  survey  of  his  principal 
pieces. 

The  Traveller,  or  Prospect  of  Society,  was  first  sketched  out 
by  the  author  during  a  tour  in  Europe,  great  part  of  which 
he  performed  on  foot,  and  in  circumstances  which  afforded 
him  the  fullest  means  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the  most 
numerous  class  in  society,  peculiarly  termed  the  people.  The 
date  of  the  first  edition  is  1765.  It  begins  in  the  gloomy- 
mood  natural  to  genius  in  distress,  when  wandering  alone, 

'  Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow.' 

After  an  affectionate  and  regretful  glance  to  the  peaceful 
seat  of  fraternal  kindness,  and  some  expressions  of  self-pity, 
the  Poet  site  down  amid  Alpine  solitudes  to  spend  a  pensive 
hour  in  meditating  on  the  state  of  mankind.  He  finds  that 


OF   DR.    GOLDSMITH.  4£ 

the  natives  of  every  land  regard  their  own  with  preference: 
whence  he  is  led  to  this  proposition, — that  if  we  impartially 
compare  the  advantages  belonging  to  different  countries,  we 
shall  conclude  that  an  equal  portion  of  good  is  dealt  to  all  the 
human  race.  He  farther  supposes,  that  every  nation,  having 
in  view  one  peculiar  species  of  happiness,  models  life  to  that 
alone  ;  whence  this  favorite  kind,  pushed  to  an  extreme,  be- 
comes a  source  of  peculiar  evils.  To  exemplify  this  by  in- 
stances, is  the  business  of  the  subsequent  descriptive  part  of 
the  piece. 

Italy  is  the  first  country  that  comes  under  review.  Its  gen- 
eral  landscape  is  painted  by  a  few  characteristic  strokes,  and 
the  felicity  of  its  climate  is  displayed  in  appropriate  imagery. 
The  revival  of  arts  and  commerce  in  Italy,  and  their  subse- 
quent decline,  are  next  touched  upon  ;  and  hence  is  derived 
the  present  disposition  of  the  people  —  easily  pleased  with 
splendid  trifles,  the  wrecks  of  their  former  grandeur ;  and 
sunk  into  an  enfeebled  moral  and  intellectual  character,  re- 
ducing them  to  the  level  of  children. 

From  these  he  turns  with  a  sort  of  disdain,  to  view  a  no- 
bler race,  hardened  by  a  rigorous  climate,  and  by  the  neces- 
sity of  unabating  toil.  These  are  the  Swiss,  who  find,  in  the 
equality  of  their  condition,  and  their  ignorance  of  other  modes 
of  life,  a  source  of  content  which  remedies  the  natural  evils 
of  their  lot.  There  cannot  be  a  more  delightful  picture  than 
the  poet  has  drawn  of  the  Swiss  peasant,  going  forth  to  his 
morning's  labor,  and  returning  at  night  to  the  bosom  of  do- 
mestic  happiness.  It  sufficiently  accounts  for  that  patriot  pa»~ 
sion  for  which  they  have  ever  been  so  celebrated,  and  which 
is  here  described  in  lines  that  reach  the  heart,  and  is  illustrat 
ed  by  a  beautiful  simile.  But  this  state  of  life  has  also  its 


46  ON    THE  POETRY 

disadvantages.  The  sources  of  enjoyment  being  few,  a  va- 
cant listlessness  is  apt  to  creep  upon  the  breast ;  and  if  nat- 
ure urges  to  throw  this  off  by  occasional  bursts  of  pleasure, 
no  stimulus  can  reach  the  purpose  but  gross  sensual  debauch. 
Their  morals,  too,  like  their  enjoyments,  are  of  a  coarse  tex- 
ture. Some  sterner  virtues  hold  high  dominion  in  their 
breast,  but  all  the  gentler  and  more  refined  qualities  of  the 
heart,  which  soften  and  sweeten  life,  are  exiled  to  milder 
climates. 

To  the  more  genial  climate  of  France  the  traveller  next 
repairs,  and  in  a  very  pleasing  rural  picture  he  introduces 
himself  in  the  capacity  of  musician  to  a  village  party  of  danc- 
ers beside  the  murmuring  Loire.  The  leading  feature  of  this 
nation  he  represents  as  being  the  love  of  praise  ;  which  pas- 
sion, while  it  inspires  sentiments  of  honor,  and  a  desire  of 
pleasing,  also  affords  a  free  course  to  folly,  and  nourishes  van- 
ity and  ostentation.  The  soul,  accustomed  to  depend  for  its 
happiness  on  foreign  applause,  shifts  its  principles  with  the 
change  of  fashion,  and  is  a  stranger  to  the  value  of  self-ap- 
probation. 

The  strong  contrast  to  this  national  character  is  sought  in 
Holland;  a  most  graphical  description  of  the  scenery  present- 
ed by  that  singular  country  introduces  the  moral  portrait  of 
the  people.  From  the  necessity  of  unceasing  labor,  induced 
by  their  peculiar  circumstances,  a  habit  of  industry  has  been 
formed,  of  which  the  natural  consequence  is  a  love  of  gain. 
The  possession  of  exuberant  wealth  has  given  rise  to  the  arts 
and  conveniences  of  life ;  but  at  the  same  time  has  introduc- 
ed a  crafty,  cold,  and  mercenary  temper,  which  sets  every- 
thing, even  liberty  itself,  at  a  price.  How  different,  exclaims 


OF    DR.    GOLDSMITH.  47 

the  poet,  from  their  Belgian  ancestors !  how  different  from 
the  present  race  of  Britain ! 

To  Britain,  then,  he  turns,  and  begins  with  a  slight  sketch 
of  the  country,  in  which,  he  says,  the  mildest  charms  of  crea 
tion  are  combined. 

'Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind.* 

He  then  draws  a  very  striking  picture  of  a  stern,  thoughtful, 
independent  freeman,  a  creature  of  reason,  unfashioned  by  the 
common  forms  of  life,  and  loose  from  all  its  ties ;—  and  this  he 
gives  as  the  representative  of  the  English  character.  A  so 
ciety  formed  by  such  unyielding,  self-dependent  beings,  will 
naturally  be  a  scene  of  violent  political  contests,  and  ever  in 
a  ferment  with  party.  And  a  still  worse  fate  awaits  it ;  for 
the  ties  of  nature,  duty,  and  love,  failing,  the  fictitious  bonds 
of  wealth  and  law  must  be  employed  to  hold  together  such  a 
reluctant  association ;  whence  the  time  may  come,  that  valor, 
learning,  and  patriotism,  may  all  lie  levelled  in  one  sink  of 
avarice.  These  are  the  ills  of  freedom  ;  but  the  Poet,  who 
would  only  repress  to  secure,  goes  on  to  deliver  his  ideas  of 
the  cause  of  such  mischiefs,  which  he  seems  to  place  in  the 
usurpations  of  aristocratical  upon  regal  authority ;  and  with 
great  energy  he  expresses  his  indignation  at  the  oppressions 
the  poor  suffer  from  their  petty  tyrants.  This  leads  him  to  a 
kind  of  anticipation  of  the  subject  of  his  '  Deserted  Village,' 
where,  laying  aside  the  politician,  and  resuming  the  poet,  he 
describes,  by  a  few  highly  pathetic  touches,  the  depopulated 
fields,  the  ruined  village,  and  the  poor,  forlorn  inhabitants; 
driven  from  their  beloved  home,  and  exposed  to  all  the  per 
ils  of  the  transatlantic  wilderness.  It  is  by  no  means  my  in 
tention  to  enter  into  a  discussion  of  GOLDSMITH'S  politics/ 


48  ON    THE  POETRY 

opinions,  which  bear  evident  marks  of  confused  notions  and 
a  heated  imagination.  I  shall  confine  myself  to  a  remark  up- 
on the  English  national  character,  which  will  apply  to  him 
in  common  with  various  other  writers,  native  and  foreign. 

This  country  has  long  been  in  the  possession  of  more  unre- 
strained freedom  of  thinking  and  acting  than  any  other  per- 
haps that  ever  existed ;  a  consequence  of  which  has  been  that 
all  these  peculiarities  of  character,  which  in  other  nations 
remain  concealed  in  the  general  mass,  have  here  stood  forth 
prominent  and  conspicuous  ;  and  these  being  from  their  nat- 
ure calculated  to  draw  attention,  have  by  superficial  observ- 
ers been  mistaken  for  the  general  character  of  the  people. 
This  has  been  particularly  the  case  with  political  distinction. 
From  the  publicity  of  all  proceedings  in  the  legislative  part 
of  our  constitution  and  tho  independence  with  which  many 
act,  all  party  differences  are  strongly  marked,  and  public  men 
take  their  side  with  openness  and  confidence.  Public  topics, 
too,  are  discussed  by  all  ranks ;  and  whatever  seeds  there  are 
in  any  part  of  the  society  of  spirit  and  activity,  have  full  op- 
portunity of  germinating.  But  to  imagine  that  these  busy 
and  high-spirited  characters  compos*  a  majority  of  the  com- 
munity, or  perhaps  a  much  greater  proportion  than  in  other 
countries,  is  a  delusion.  This  nation,  as  a  body,  is,  like  all 
others,  characterized  by  circumstances  of  its  situation;  and 
a  rich  commercial  people,  long  trained  to  society,  inhabiting  a 
climate  where  many  things  are  necessary  to  the  comfort  of  life, 
and  under  a  government  abounding  with  splendid  distinc 
tions  cannot  possibly  be  a  knot  of  philosophers  and  patriots. 

To  return  from  this  digression .  Though  it  is  probable  that 
few  of  GOLDSMITH'S  readers  will  be  convinced,  even  from 
the  instances  he  has  himself  produced,  that  the  happiness  of 


OF    DR.  GOLDSMITH.  49 

mankind  is  everywhere  equal ;  yet  all  will  feel  the  force  of 
the  truly  philosophical  sentiment  which  concludes  the  piece, 
—  that  man's  chief  bliss  is  ever  seated  in  his  mind  :  and  that 
but  a  small  part  of  real  felicity  consists  in  what  human  gov- 
ernments can  either  bestow  or  withhold. 

The  Deserted  Village,  first  printed  in  1769,  is  the  compan- 
ion-piece of  the  Traveller,  formed,  like  it,  upon  a  plan  which 
unites  description  with  sentiment,  and  employs  both  in  incul- 
cating a  political  moral.  It  is  a  view  of  the  prosperous  and 
ruined  state  of  a  country  village,  with  reflections  on  the  caus- 
es of  both.  Such  it  may  be  defined  in  prose;  but  the  dispo- 
sition, management,  and  coloring  of  the  piece  are  all  calculat- 
ed for  poetical  effect.  It  begins  with  a  delightful  picture  of 
Auburn,  when  inhabited  by  a  happy  people.  The  view  of  the 
village  itself,  and  the  rural  occupations  and  pastimes  of  its 
simple  natives,  is  in  the  best  style  of  painting,  by  a  selection 
of  characteristic  circumstances.  It  is  immediately  contrasted 
by  a  similar  bold  sketch  of  its  ruined  and  desolated  condition. 
Then  succeeds  an  imaginary  state  of  England,  in  a  kind  of 
golden  age  of  equality  ;  with  its  contrast  likewise.  The  apos- 
trophe that  follows,  the  personal  complaint  of  the  poet,  and 
the  portrait  of  a  sage  in  retirement,  are  sweetly  sentimental 
touches  that  break  the  continuity  of  description. 

He  returns  to  Auburn,  and  having  premised  another  mas- 
terly sketch  of  its  two  states,  in  which  the  images  are  chiefly 
drawn  from  sounds,  he  proceeds  to  what  may  be  called  the 
interior  history  of  the  village.  In  his  first  figure  he  has  tried 
his  strength  with  Dryden.  The  parish  priest  of  that  great 
poet,  improved  from  Chaucer,  is  a  portrait  full  of  beauty,  but 
drawn  in  a  loose,  unequal  manner,  with  the  flowing  vein  of 
digressive  thought  and  imagery  that  stamps  his  style.  The 

5 


50  ON    THE  POETRY 

subject  of  the  draught,  too,  is  considerably  different  from  that 
of  GOLDSMITH,  having  more  of  the  ascetic  and  mortified  cast 
in  conformity  to  the  saintly  model  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
priesthood.  The  pastor  of  Auburn  is  more  human,  but  is  not 
on  that  account  a  less  venerable  and  interesting  figure; 
though  I  know  not  whether  all  will  be  pleased  with  his  fa- 
miliarity with  vicious  characters,  which  goes  beyond  the  pur- 
pose of  mere  reformation.  The  description  of  him  hi  his  pro- 
fessional character  is  truly  admirable  ;  and  the  similes  of  the 
bird  instructing  its  young  to  fly,  and  the  tall  cliff  rising  above 
the  storm  have  been  universally  applauded.  The  first,  I  be- 
lieve, is  original ;  —  the  second  is  not  so,  though  it  has  pro- 
bably never  been  so  well  drawn  and  applied.  The  subse- 
quent sketches  of  the  village  schoolmaster  and  alehouse  are 
close  imitations  of  nature  in  low  life,  like  the  pictures  of 
Teniers  and  Hogarth.  Yet  even  these  humorous  Fcenes  slide 
imperceptibly  into  sentiment  and  pathos ;  and  the  comparison 
of  the  simple  pleasures  of  the  poor,  with  the  splendid  festivi 
ties  of  the  opulent,  rises  to  the  highest  style  of  moral  poetry. 
Who  has  not  felt  the  force  of  that  reflection, 

4 The  heart  distrusting  ask.s,  if  this  be  joy?' 

» 

The  writer  then  falls  into  a  strain  of  reasoning  against  lux. 

ury  and  superfluous  wealth,  in  which  the  sober  inquirer  will 
find  much  serious  truth,  though  mixed  with  poetical  exagger- 
ation. The  description  of  the  contrasted  scenes  of  magnifi- 
cence and  misery  in  a  great  metropolis,  closed  by  the  pathet- 
ic figure  of  the  forlorn,  ruined  female,  is  not  to  be  surpassed. 
Were  not  the  subjects  of  GOLDSMITH'S  description  so 
skilfully  varied,  the  uniformity  of  manner,  consisting  in  an 
enumeration  of  single  circumstances,  generally  depicted  in 


OF   DR.  GOLDSMITH.  51 

single  lines,  might  tire ;  but  where  is  the  reader  who  can 
avoid  being  hurried  along  by  the  swift  current  of  imagery, 
when  to  such  a  passage  as  the  last  succeeds  a  landscape  fraught 
with  all  the  sublime  terrors  of  the  torid  zone  ;  —  and  then  an 
exquisitely  tender  history-piece  of  the  departure  of  the  villag- 
ers concluded  with  a  group  (slightly  touched  indeed)  or  alle- 
gorical personages?  A  noble  address  to  the  Genius  of  Poetry, 
in  which  is  compressed  the  moral  of  the  whole,  gives  a  dig- 
nified finishing  to  the  work. 

If  we  compare  these  two  principal  poems  of  GOLDSMITH, 
we  may  say  that  the  '  Traveller  '  is  formed  on  a  more  regu- 
lar plan,  has  a  higher  purpose  in  view,  more  abounds  in 
thought,  and  in  the  expression  of  moral  and  philosophical 
ideas :  the  '  Deserted  Village '  has  more  imagery,  more  varie- 
ty, more  pathos,  more  of  the  peculiar  character  of  poetry.  In 
the  first,  the  moral  and  natural  descriptions  are  more  gener- 
al and  elevated,  in  the  second,  they  are  more  particular  and 
interesting.  Both  are  tfuly  original  productions;  but  the 
'  Deserted  Village '  has  less  peculiarity,  and  indeed  has  given 
rise  to  imitations  which  may  stand  in  some  parallel  with  it ; 
while  the  '  Traveller  '  remains  an  unique. 

With  regard  to  GOLDSMITH'S  other  poems,  a  few  remarks 
will  suffice.  The  '  Hermit,'  printed  in  the  same  year  with 
the  '  Traveller/  has  been  a  very  popular  piece,  as  might  be 
expected  of  a  tender  tale  prettily  told.  It  is  called  a  '  Ballad,' 
but  I  think  with  no  correct  application  of  that  term,  which 
properly  means  a  story  related  in  language  either  natur- 
ally or  affectedly  rude  and  simple.  It  has  been  a  sort  of  a 
fashion  to  admire  these  productions ;  yet  in  the  really  ancient 
ballads,  for  one  stroke  of  beauty,  there  are  pages  of  insipidity 
and  vulgarity ;  and  the  imitations  have  been  pleasing  in  pro. 


52  ON  DR.  GOLDSMITH'S  POETRY. 

portion  as  they  approached  more  finished  compoeitiona  In 
GOLDSMITH'S  'Hermit '  the  language  is  always  polished,  and 
often  ornamented.  The  best  things  iu  it  are  some  neat  turns 
of  moral  and  pathetic  sentiment,  given  with  a  simple  concise- 
ness that  fits  them  for  being  retained  in  the  memory.  AE  to 
the  story,  it  has  little  fancy  or  contrivance  to  recommend  it. 
We  have  already  seen  that  GOLDSMITH  possessed  humor; 
and,  exclusively  of  his  comedies,  pieces  professedly  humorous 
form  a  part  of  his  poetical  remains.  His  imitations  of  Swift 
are  happy,  but  they  are  imitations.  His  tale  of  the  '  Double 
Transformation*  may  vie  with  those  of  Prior.  His  own  nat- 
ural vein  of  easy  humor  flows  freely  in  his  '  Haunch  of 
Venison  '  and  '  Retaliation ' ;  the  first,  an  admirable  specimen 
of  a  very  ludicrous  story  made  out  of  a  common  incident  by 
the  help  of  conversation  and  character ;  the  other,  an  orig- 
inal thought,  in  which  his  talent  at  drawing  portraits,  with  a 
mixture  of  the  serious  and  the  comic,  is  most  happily  dis- 
played. 


POEMS. 


VERSES 

ON    THE 

DEATH   OF  DR.   GOLDSMITH. 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM 

WRITTEN  BY  COURTNEY  MELMOTH,  ESQ. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EMINENT  ENGLISH  POETS. 

THE  TEARS  OF  GENIUS. 

THE  village  bell  tolls  out  the  note  of  death, 
And  through  the  echoing  air  the  length'ning  sound, 
With  dreadful  pause,  reverberating  deep, 
Spreads  the  sad  tidings  o'er  fair  Auburn's  vale. 
There,  to  enjoy  the  scenes  her  bard  had  praised 
In  all  the  sweet  simplicity  of  song, 
GENIUS,  in  pilgrim  garb,  sequester'd  sat, 
And  herded  jocund  with  the  harmless  swains ; 
But  when  she  heard  the  fate-foreboding  knell, 
With  startled  step,  precipitate  and  swift, 
And  look  pathetic,  full  of  dire  presage, 
The  church-way  walk  beside  the  neighb'ring  green, 
Sorrowing  she  sought ;   and  there,  in  black  array, 
Borne  on  the  shoulders  of  the  swains  he  loved, 
She  saw  the  boast  of  Aaburn  moved  along. 


56  COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

Touch'd  at  the  view,  her  pensive  breast  she  struck, 

And  to  the  cypress,  which  incumbent  hangs, 

With  leaning  slope  and  branch  irregular, 

O'er  the  moss'd  pillars  of  the  sacred  fane. 

The  briar-bound  grave  shadowing  with  funeral  gloom, 

Forlorn  she  hied ;  and  there  the  crowding  woe 

(Swell'd  by  the  parent)  press'd  on  bleeding  thought, 

Big  ran  the  drops  from  her  maternal  eye, 

Fast  broke  the  bosom-sorrow  from  her  heart, 

And  pale  Distress  sat  sickly  on  her  cheek, 

As  thus  her  plaintive  Elegy  began  :  — 

"And  must  my  children  all  expire  ? 

Shall  none  be  left  to  strike  the  lyre  ? 

Courts  Death  alone  a  learned  prize  ? 

Falls  his  shafts  only  on  the  wise  ? 

Can  no  fit  marks  on  earth  be  found, 

From  useless  thousands  swarming  round  ? 

What  crowding  ciphers  cram  the  land, 

What  hosts  of  victims,  at  -command  ! 

Yet  shall  the  ingenious  drop  alone  ? 

Shall  Science  grace  the  tyrant's  throne  ? 

Thou  murd'rer  of  the  tuneful  train 

I  charge  thee  with  my  children  slain  ! 
Scarce  has  the  sun  thrice  urged  his  annual  tour, 
Since  half  my  race  have  felt  thy  barbarous  power 

Sore  hast  thou  thinn'd  each  pleasing  art, 

And  struck  a  muse  with  every  dart ; 
Bard  after  bard  obey'd  thy  slaughtering  call, 
Till  scarce  a  poet  lives  to  sing  a  brother's  fall. 

Then  let  a  widow'd  mother  pay 

The  tribute  of  a  parting  lay; 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES.  57 

Tearful,  inscribe  the  monumental  strain, 
And  speak  aloud  her  feelings  and  her  pain ! 
'And  first,  farewell  to  thee,  my  son,'  she  cried, 

'And  first,  farewell  to  thee,  my  son,'  she  cried, 
Long  for  thy  sake  the  peasant's  tear  shall  flow, 
And  many  a  virgin  bosom  heave  with  woe ; 
For  thee  shall  sorrow  sadden  all  the  scene, 
And  every  pastime  perish  on  the  green ; 
The  sturdy  farmer  shall  suspend  his  tale, 
The  woodman's  ballad  shall  no  more  regale, 
No  more  shall  Mirth  each  rustic  sport  inspire, 
But  every  frolic,  every  feat,  shall  tire. 
No  more  the  evening  gambol  shall  delight, 
Nor  moonshine-revels  crown  the  vacant  night ; 
But  groups  of  villagers  (each  joy  forgot) 
Shall  form  a  sad  assembly  round  the  cot. 
Sweet  bard,  farewell !  —  and  farewell,  Auburn's  bliss, 
The  bashful  lover,  and  the  yielded  kiss  : 
The  evening  warble  Philomela  made, 
The  echoing  forest,  and  the  whispering  shade, 
The  winding  brook,  the  bleat  of  brute  content, 
And  the  blithe  voice  that  "  whistled  as  it  went : " 
These  shall  no  longer  charm  the  ploughman's  care, 
But  sighs  shall  fill  the  pauses  of  despair. 

6  GOLDSMITH,  adieu  ;  the  "  book-learn'd  priest"  for 

thee 

Shall  now  in  vain  possess  his  festive  glee, 
The  oft-heard  jest  in  vain  he  shall  reveal, 
For  now,  alas  !  the  jest  he  cannot  feel. 
But  ruddy  damsels  o'er  thy  tomb  shall  bend, 
And  conscious  weep  for  their  and  virtue's  friend ; 


58  COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

The  milkmaid  shall  reject  the  shepherd's  song, 

And  cease  to  carol  as  she  toils  along : 

All  Auburn  shall  bewail  the  fatal  day, 

When  from  her  fields  their  pride  was  snatch'd  away. 

And  even  the  matron  of  the  cressy  lake, 

In  piteous  plight,  her  palsied  head  shall  shake, 

While  all  adown  the  furrows  of  her  face 

Slow  shall  the  lingering  tears  each  other  trace. 

'And,  oh,  my  child !  severer  woes  remain 
To  all  the  houseless  and  unshelter'd  train ! 
Thy  fate  shall  sadden  many  an  humble  guest, 
And  heap  fresh  anguish  on  the  beggar's  breast; 
For  dear  wert  thou  to  all  the  sons  of  pain, 
To  all  that  wander,  sorrow  or  complain : 
Dear  to  the  learned,  to  the  simple  dear, 
For  daily  blessing  mark'd  thy  virtuous  year. 
The  rich  received  a  moral  from  thy  head, 
And  from  thy  heart  the  stranger  found  a  bed 
Distress  came  always  smiling  from  thy  door ; 
For  God  had  made  thee  agent  to  the  poor, 
Had  form'd  thy  feelings  on  the  noblest  plan, 
To  grace  at  once  the  poet  and  the  man.' 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  MONODY. 

DARK  as  the  night,  which  now  in  dunnest  robe 
Ascends  her  zenith  o'er  the  silent  globe, 
Sad  Melancholy  wakes,  a  while  to  tread, 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES.  59 

With  solemn  step,  the  mansions  of  the  dead : 

Led  by  her  hand,  o'er  this  yet  recent  shrine 

I  sorrowing  bend ;  and  here  essay  to  twine 

The  tributary  wreath  of  laureat  bloom, 

With  artless  hands,  to  deck  a  poet's  tomb, — 

The  tomb  where  Goldsmith  sleeps.    Fond  hopes,  adieu. 

No  more  your  airy  dreams  shall  mock  my  view ; 

Here  will  I  learn  ambition  to  control, 

And  each  aspiring  passion  of  the  soul : 

E'en  now,  methinks,  his  well-known  voice  I  hear, 

When  late  he  meditated  flight  from  care, 

When,  as  imagination  fondly  hied 

To  scenes  of  sweet  retirement,  thus  he  cried :  — 

1  Ye  splendid  fabrics,  palaces,  and  towers, 
Where  dissipation  leads  the  giddy  hours, 
Where  pomp,  disease,  and  knavery  reside, 
And  folly  bends  the  knee  to  wealthy  pride ; 
Where  luxury's  purveyors  learn  to  rise, 
And  worth,  to  want  a  prey,  unfriended  dies ; 
Where  warbling  eunuchs  glitter  in  brocade, 
And  hapless  poets  toil  for  scanty  bread : 
Farewell !   to  other  scenes  I  turn  my  eyes, 
Embosom'd  in  the  vale  where  Auburn  lies  — 
Deserted  Auburn,  those  now  ruin'd  glades, 
Forlorn,  yet  ever  dear  and  honor'd  shades, 
There,  though  the  hamlet  boasts  no  smiling  tram5 
Nor  sportful  pastime  circling  on  the  plain, 
No  needy  villians  prowl  around  for  prey, 
No  slanderers,  no  sycophants  betray ; 
No  gaudy  foplings  scornfully  deride 
The  swain,  whose  humble  pipe  is  all  his  pride, — 


60  COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

There  will  I  fly  to  seek  that  soft  repose, 
Which  solitude  centemplative  bestows. 
Yet,  oh,  fond  hope !  perchance  there  still  remains 
One  lingering  friend  behind,  to  bless  the  plains  ; 
Some  hermit  of  the  dale,  enshrined  in  ease, 
Long  lost  companion  of  my  youthful  days ; 
With  whose  sweet  converse  in  his  social  bower, 
I  oft  may  chide  away  some  vacant  hour ; 
To  whose  pure  sympathy  I  may  impart 
Each  latent  grief  that  labors  at  my  heart, 
Whate'er  I  felt,  and  what  I  saw,  relate, 
The  shoals  of  luxury,  the  wrecks  of  state, — 
Those  busy  scenes,  where  science  wakes  in  vain, 
In  which  I  shared,  ah !  ne'er  to  share  again. 
Hut  whence  that  pang  ?  does  nature  now  rebel  ? 
Why  falters  out  my  tongue  the  word  farewell  ? 
Ye  friends !  who  long  have  witness'd  to  my  toil, 
And  seen  me  ploughing  in  a  thankless  soil, 
Whose  partial  tenderness  hush'd  every  pain, 
Whose  approbation  made  my  bosom  vain, — 
'Tis  you  to  whom  my  soul  divided  hies 
With  fond  regret,  and  half  unwilling  flies ; 
Sighs  forth  her  parting  wishes  to  the  wind, 
And  lingering  leaves  her  better  half  behind. 
Can  I  forget  the  intercourse  I  shared, 
What  friendship  cherish'd,  and  what  zeal  endear  d 
Alas !  remembrance  still  must  turn  to  you, 
And,  to  my  latest  hour,  protract  the  long  adieu. 
Amid  the  woodlands,  wheresoe'er  I  rove, 
The  plain,  or  secret  covert  of  the  grove, 
Imagination  shall  supply  her  store 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES.  61 

Of  painful  bliss,  and  what  she  can  restore  ; 

Shall  strew  each  lonely  path  with  flow'rets  gay, 

And  wide  as  is  her  b  oundless  empire  stray ; 

On  eagle  pinions  traverse  earth  and  skies, 

And  bid  the  lost  and  distant  objects  rise. 

Here,  where  encircled  o'er  the  sloping  land 

Woods  rise  on  woods,  shall  Aristotle  stand ; 

Lyceum  round  the  godlike  man  rejoice, 

And  bow  with  reverence  to  wisdom's  voice. 

There,  spreading  oaks  shall  arch  the  vaulted  dome. 

The  champion,  there,  of  liberty  and  Rome, 

In  Attic  eloquence  shall  thunder  laws, 

And  uncorrupted  senates  shout  applause. 

Not  more  ecstatic  visions  rapt  the  soul 

Of  Numa,  when  to  midnight  grots  he  stole, 

And  learnt  his  lore,  from  virtue's  mouth  refined, 

To  fetter  vice,  and  harmonize  mankind. 

Now  stretch'd  at  ease  beside  some  fav'rite  stream 

Of  beauty  and  enchantment  will  I  dream ; 

Elysium,  seats  of  arts,  and  laurels  won, 

The  Graces  three,  and  Japhet's  *  fabled  son  ; 

Whilst  Angelo  shall  wave  the  mystic  rod, 

And  see  a  new  creation  wait  his  nod ; 

Prescribe  his  bounds  to  Time's  remorseless  power, 

And  to  my  arms  my  absent  friends  restore ; 

Place  me  amidst  the  group,  each  well  known  face, 

The  sons  of  science,  lords  of  human  race ; 

And  as  oblivion  sinks  at  his  command, 

Nature  shall  rise  more  fmish'd  from  h?*  hand. 

*  Prometheus. 
6 


62  COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

Thus  some  magician,  fraught  with  potent  skill, 
Transforms  and  moulds  each  varied  mass  at  will ; 
Calls  animated  forms  of  wondrous  birth, 
Cadmean  offspring,  from  the  teeming  earth, 
Unceres  the  ponderous  tombs,  the  realms  of  night, 
And  calls  their  cold  inhabitants  to  light ; 
Or,  as  he  traverses  a  dreary  scene, 
Bids  every  sweet  of  nature  there  convene, 
Huge  mountains  skirted  round  with  wavy  woods, 
The  shrub-deck'd  lawns,  and  silver-sprinkled  floods. 
Whilst  flow'rets  spring  around  the  smiling  land, 
And  follow  on  the  traces  of  his  wand. 

*  Such  prospects,  lovely  Auburn !  then,  be  thine, 
And  what  thou  canst  of  bliss  impart  be  mine ; 
Amid  thy  humble  shades,  in  tranquil  ease, 
Grant  me  to  pass  the  remnant  of  my  days. 
Unfetter'd  from  the  toil  of  wretched  gain, 
My  raptured  muse  shall  pour  her  noblest  strain, 
Within  her  native  bowers  the  notes  prolong, 
And,  grateful,  meditate  her  latest  song. 
Thus,  as  adown  the  slope  of  life  I  bend, 
And  move,  resign'd,  to  meet  my  latter  end, 
Each  worldly  wish,  each  worldly  care  repress'd, 
A  self-approving  heart  alone  possess'd, 
Content,  to  bounteous  Heaven  I'll  leave  the  rest.' 

Thus  spoke  the  bard :  but  not  one  friendly  power 
Wish  nod  assentive  crown'd  the  parting  hour ; 
No  eastern  meteor  glared  beneath  the  sky, 
No  dextral  omen :  Nature  heaved  a  sigh 
Prophetic  of  the  dire,  impending  blow, 
1  he  presage  of  her  loss,  and  Britain's  woe. 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES.  63 

Already  portion Yl,  unrelenting  fate 

Had  made  a  pause  upon  the  number'd  date ; 

Behind  stood  Death,  too  horrible  for  sight, 

In  darkness  clad,  expectant,  pruned  for  flight ; 

Pleased  at  the  word,  the  shapeless  monster  sped> 

On  eager  message  to  the  humble  shed, 

Where,  wrapt  by  soft  poetic  visions  round, 

Sweet  slumbering,  Fancy's  darling  son  he  found. 

At  his  approach  the  silken  pinion'd  train, 

Affrighted,  mount  aloft,  and  quit  the  brain, 

Which  late  they  fann'd.     Now  other  scenes  than  dar>rf 

Of  woody  pride,  succeed,  or  flowery  vales  : 

As  when  a  sudden  tempest  veils  the  sky, 

Before  serene,  and  streaming  lightnings  fly, 

The  prospect  shifts,  and  pitchy  volumes  roll 

Along  the  drear  expanse,  from  pole  to  pole ; 

Terrific  horrors  all  the  void  invest, 

Whilst  the  arch  spectre  issues  forth  confest. 

The  Bard  beholds  him  beckon  to  the  tomb 

Of  yawning  night,  eternity's  dread  womb  ; 

In  vain  attempts  to  fly,  th'  impassive  air 

Retards  his  steps,  and  yields  him  to  despair ; 

He  feels  a  gripe  that  thrills  through  every  vein, 

And  panting  struggles  in  the  fatal  chain. 

Here  paused  the  fell  destroyer,  to  survey 

The  pride,  the  boast  of  man,  his  destined  prey ; 

Prepared  to  strike,  he  pois'd  aloft  the  dart, 

And  plunged  the  steel  in  Virtue's  bleeding  heart ; 

Abhorrent,  back  the  springs  of  life  rebound, 

And  leave  on  Nature  s  face  a  ghastly  wound, 

A  wound  enroll'd  among  Britannia's  woes, 


64  COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

That  ages  yet  to  follow  cannot  close. 

O  Goldsmith  !  how  shall  Sorrow  now  essay 
To  murmur  out  her  slow,  incondite  lay  ? 
In  what  sad  accents  mourn  the  luckless  hour, 
That  yielded  thee  to  unrelenting  power ; 
Thee,  the  proud  boast  of  all  the  tuneful  train 
That  sweep  the  lyre,  or  swell  the  polish 'd  strain 
Much  honored  Bard!   if  my  untutor'd  vers< 
Could  pay  a  tribute  worthy  of  thy  hearse, 
With  fearless  hands  I'd  build  the  fane  of  praise, 
And  boldly  strew  the  never-fading  bays. 
But,  ah !  with  thee  my  guardian  genius  fled, 
And  pillow'd  in  thy  tomb  his  silent  head : 
Pain'd  Memory  alone  behind  remains, 
And  pensive  stalks  the  solitary  plains, 
Rich  in  her  sorrows  ;   honors  without  art 
She  pays  in  tears  redundant  from  the  heart. 
And  say,  what  boots  it  o'er  thy  hallow'd  dust 
To  heap  the  graven  pile,  or  laurell'd  bust ; 
Since  by  thy  hands,  already  raised  on  high, 
We  see  a  fabric  tow'ring  to  the  sky  ; 
Where,  hand  in  hand  with  Time,  the  sacred  lore 
Shall  travel  on,  till  Nature  is  no  more  ? 


LINES  BY  W.  WOTTY. 

ADIEU,  sweet  Bard !  to  each  fine  feeling  true, 
Thy  virtues  many,  and  thy  foibles  few,— 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES.  65 

These  form'd  to  charm  e'en  vicious  minds,  and  these 
With  harmless  mirth  the  social  soul  to  please. 
Another's  woe  thy  hearfc  could  always  melt ; 
None  gave  more  free,  for  none  more  deeply  felt. 
Sweet  Bard,  adieu  !   thy  own  harmonious  lays 
Have  sculptured  out  thy  monument  of  praise. 
Yes,  these  survive  to  Time's  remotest  day; 
While  drops  the  bust,  and  boastful  tombs  decay. 
Reader,  if  number'd  in  the  Muse's  train, 
Go,  tune  the  lyre,  and  imitate  his  strain; 
But,  if  no  poet  thou,  reverse  tne  plan, 
Depart  in  peace,  and  imitate  the  man. 


THE  TRAVELLER; 

OR, 

A  PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETY. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  THE   REV.    HENRY  GOLDSMITH. 

DEAR  SIR, —  I  am  sensible  that  the  friendship  between  us 
can  acquire  no  new  force  from  the  ceremonies  of  a  dedica- 
tion ;  and  perhaps  it  demands  an  excuse  thus  to  prefix  your 
name  to  my  attempts,  which  you  decline  giving  with  your 
own.  But  as  a  part  of  this  poem  was  formerly  written  to  you 
from  Swit/erland,  the  whole  can  now,  with  propriety,  be  on- 
ly inscribed  to  you.  It  will  also  throw  a  light  upon  many 
parts  of  it,  when  the  reader  understands,  that  it  is  addressed 
to  a  man  who,  despising  fame  and  fortune,  has  retired  early 
to  happiness  and  obscurity,  with  an  income  of  forty  pounds 
a-year. 

I  now  perceive,  my  dear  brother,  the  wisdom  of  your  hum- 
ble choice.  You  have  entered  upon  a  sacred  office,  where 
the  harvest  is  great,  and  the  laborers  are  but  few ;  while  you 
have  left  the  field  of  ambition,  where  the  laborers  are  many 
and  the  harvest  not  worth  carrying  away.  But  of  all  kinds 
of  ambition  —  what  from  the  refinement  of  the  times,  from 


THE  TRAVELLER.  67 

different  systems  of  criticism,  and  from  the  divisions  of  party 
—  that  which  pursues  political  fame  is  the  wildest. 

Poetry  makes  a  principal  amusement  among  unpolished 
nations  ;  but  in  a  country  verging  to  the  extremes  of  refine- 
ment, painting  and  music  come  in  for  a  share.  As  these  offer 
the  feeble  mind  a  less  laborious  entertainment,  they  at  first 
rival  poetry,  and  at  length  supplant  her  ;  they  engross  all 
that  favor  once  shown  to  her,  and  though  but  younger  sisters, 
seize  upon  the  elder's  birthright. 

Yet,  however  this  art  may  be  neglected  by  the  powerful, 
it  is  still  in  greater  danger  from  the  mistaken  efforts  of  the 
learned  to  improve  it.  What  criticisms  have  we  not  heard 
of  late  in  favor  of  blank  verse  and  Pindaric  odes,  choruses, 
anapests  and  iambics,  alliterative  care  and  happy  negligence  ! 
Every  absurdity  has  now  a  champion  to  defend  it  ;  and  as  he 
is  generally  much  in  the  wrong,  so  he  has  always  much  to 
say  ;  for  error  is  ever  talkative. 

But  there  is  an  enemy  to  this  art  still  more  dangerous,  — 
I  mean  party.  Party  entirely  distorts  the  judgment,  and  des- 
troys the  taste.  When  the  mind  is  once  infected  with  this 
disease,  it  can  only  find  pleasure  in  what  contributes  to  in- 
crease the  distemper.  Like  the  tig^erT  that 


from  pursuing  man  after  having  once  prayed  upon  human 
flesh,  the  reader,  who  has  onc^  nriHi+.ifioH  T^e  appetite  with  cal- 
umny, makes  ever  after  tl^  mn^.  flfn-een.b]e,  ffflRt.  "T™1  ™"r" 

jred  reputation.  Such  readers  generally  admire  some  half- 
witted thing,  who  wants  to  be  thought  a  bold  man,  having 
lost  the  character  of  a  wise  one.  Him  they  dignify  with  the 
name  of  poet;  his  tawdy  lampoons  are  called  satires;  his 
turbulence  is  said  to  be  force,  and  his  frenzy  fire. 

What  reception  a  poem  may  find,  which  has  neither  abuse 


68 


THE    TRAVELLER. 


party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support  it,  I  cannot  tell,  nor  am  I 
solicitous  to  know.  My  aims  are  right.  Without  espousing 
the  cause  of  any  party,  I  have  attempted  to  moderate  the 
rage  of  all.  I  have  flntWvnr^  jo  shew  that  there  may  be 

mal  happiness  in  states 
0411-  owiT;  that  BVerylTtate  has  a  particular  principle  of  happi- 
nessland  that  this  principle  in  each  mav  be  carried  to  a  mis- 
chievous excess.  There  are  few  can  judge  better  than  your- 
self howfaFtfiBBe  positions  are  illustrated  in  this  poem.  I  am, 
dear  Sir,  your  most  affectionate  brother, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


THE   TRAVELLER. 


REMOTE,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld,  or  wandering  Po, 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door; 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies : 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravell'd  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend  ! 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire  ! 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair ! 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crownM, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ! 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good ! 


70  THE    TRAVELLER. 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent,  and  care ; 
Impell'd,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view 
That  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies : 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 
E'en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And,  placed  on  high  above  the  storm's  career, 
Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  prida. 

When  thus  Creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride  repine  ? 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain  ? 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 
And  wiser  he,  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
Ye  glittering  towns,  with  wealth  and  splendor  crown'd ; 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round  : 
Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale ; 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale ; 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine, 
Creation's  heir,  the  world  —  the  world  is  mine ! 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er, 
Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 


THE    TRAVELLER.  71 

Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still. 

Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 

Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  supplies 

Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 

To  see  the  sum  of  human  bliss  so  small  : 

And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene  to  find 

Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consigned, 

g  hope 


May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 
Bui  wheire  to  lind  that  happiest  spot  below 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own  ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease  ; 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  Line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind  ; 
Aa  diffflrpnf  gr>nfl1  Viy  flrt  QP  nature  given, 
To  different  nations  makes^JheoiUiLessings  even, 
,  Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 
Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labor's  earnest  call  ; 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idra's  cliffs  as  Arno's  shelvy  side. 


72  THE    TRAVELLER. 

And  though  the  rocky-crested  summits  frown. 
These  rocks  by  custom  turn  to  beds  of  down,. 
From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent,^ 
Wealth,  commerce,  honor,  liberty,  content. 
Yet  these  each  other's  power  so  strong  contest, 
That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest.' 
Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  contentment  fails. 
.  And  honor  sinks,  where  commerce  long  prevails. 
x  Hence  every  state,  to  one  lovedp  blessing  prone, 
Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone.  t£     t 

Each  to  the  favorite  happiness  attends,  l*£  *• 


And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends  ; 
Till  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 
This  Favorite  good  begets  peculiar  pain 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyes,    » 
_Jc^  And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies  » 
HP™T  %  a  wfriler  my  proper  cares,  resigned, 
Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind  ; 
Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  random  cast, 
That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  biast. 

Far  to  the  right,  where  Apennine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends  ; 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride, 
While  oft  some  temple's  mouldering  tops  between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  Nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest: 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  are  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground  ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 


THE    TRAVELLER.  73 

Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year, 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die, 
These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil,     t  -uo 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil ; 
While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand, 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 
-And  sensual  bliss  is  all  this  nation  knows. 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign : 
Though  poor,  luxurious  ;  though  submissive,  vain  ; 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling ;  zealous,  yet  untrue  ;      ' 
And  e'en  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind : 
For  wealth  was  theirs  ;  not  far  removed  the  date, 
When  commerce  proudly  flourish'd  through  the  staie 
At  her  command  the  palace  learn'd  to  rise, 
Again  the  long  fall'n  column  sought  the  skies ; 
The  canvas  glow'd  beyond  e'en  nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teem'd  with  human  form : 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale,        J  4^ 
Commerce  on  other  shores  display'd  her  sail ; 
While  nought  remain'd,  of  all  that  riches  gave, 
But  towns  unmann'd,  and  lords  without  a  slave : 
And  late  the  nation  found,  with  fruitless  skill, 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride  j 
7 


74  THE  TRAVELLER. 

From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long  fall'n  mind . 

An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 

Here  may  be  seen  in  bloodless  pomp  array'd,       '  i  O 

The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade 

Processions  form'd  for  piety  and  love, 

A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 

By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguil'd ; 

The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child ; 

Each  nobler  aim  repress'd  by  long  control 

Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 

While  low  delights  succeeding  fast  behind, 

In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind ; 

As  in  those  dooms  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway,  \\j* 

Defaced  by  time,  and  tottering  in  decay, 

There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 

The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed ; 

And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pil<-. 

Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 

My  soul,  turn  from  them !  turn  we  to  survey 
Wl^prA  rn|]nrVipr  flings  a  nobler  race  display. 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread. 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread : 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 
xBut  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword ; 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 
But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May  ; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast, 
But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest. 

Yet  .still,  even  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 
Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feast  though  small. 


THE    TRAVELLER.  75 


He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 

Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head,    l^v 

To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed 

No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal, 

To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal ; 

But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 

Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 

Cheerful,  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose,    ! 

Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 

With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 

Or  drives  his  vent'rous  ploughshare  to  the  steep ; 

Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way; 

And  drags  thejstruggling  savage!  into  day.    — 

At  night  returning,  every  labor  sped, 

He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  the  shed ; 

Smiles  by  a  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 

His  children's  looks  that  brighten  to  the  blaze, 

While  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 

Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board  ; 

And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 

With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart-; 
And  e'en  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion  rise, 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms, 
And  dear  that  hill  that  lifts  him  to  the  storms  ? 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast, 
So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 


76  THE    TRAVELLER. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assigned,      **  ° 

Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confined ; 

Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, — 
x<If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few ; 

For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast, 

Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest. 

Hence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science  flies, 

That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies; 

I'nknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 

To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy  ; 

Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame,   0/j, 
r  Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame, 

Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 

Nor  quench'd  by  want,  nor  fann'd  by  strong  desire 

Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 

On  some  high  festival  of  once  a-year, 

In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 

Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow, — 

Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low ;        ^0 

For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 

Unalter'd,  unimproved  the  manners  run ; 

And  love's  and  friendship's  finely  pointed  dart 

Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 

Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 

May  sit  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 

But  all  the  gentler  morals, —  such  as  play 

Through  life's  more  cultured   walks,  and  charm  the 
way,— 

These,  far  dispersed,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 

To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

s  To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 


THE    TRAVELLER.  77 

I  turn  ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 

Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 

Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please, 

How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 

With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring  Loire ! 

Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 

And  freshen'd  from  the  wave,  the  zephyr  flew ; 

And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch  flatt'ring  still, 

But  mock'd  all  tune,  arid  marr'd  the  dancer's  skill ; 

Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 

And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 

Alike  all  ages  :  dames  of  ancient  days 

Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze ; 

And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill'd  in  gestic  lore, 

Has  frisk'd  beneath  the  burden  of  three  score. 

So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display  ; 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away : 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honor  forms  the  social  temper  here : 
,  Honor,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land ; 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise : 
They  please,  are  pleased  ;  they  give  to  get  esteem  ; 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies,    ^ 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise ; 
For  praise  too  dearly  Inypfl,  nr  warynly  sought. 
Enfeebles  all  internal  str^ng-th  of  thought : 
7* 


78  THE    TRAVELLER. 

And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  Ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
Here  Vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace  ; 
Here  beggar  Pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a-year ; 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws, 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom'd  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land. 
And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow,  IX^£> 

The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow, 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore ; 
While  the  pent  Ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile  ; 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossom'd  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 

industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 
Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 


THE    TRAVELLER.  79 

With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 

Are  here  display 'd.     Their  much-loved  wealth  imparts 

Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts  ; 

But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear ; 

Even  liberty  itself  is  barter'd  here ; 

At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 

The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys. 

A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 

Here  wretches  seek  dishonorable  graves, 

And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 

Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens  ;  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old ! 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold, 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow ; 
How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now ! 

Fired  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her  wing,     ^  "U> 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring ; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  brighter  streams  than  famed  Hydaspes  glide. 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray, 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray  ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combined, 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind ! 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  Reason  holds  her  state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great, 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by : 
Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashion'd,  fresh  from  nature's  hand, 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 
True  to  imagined  right  above  control, — 


80  THE    TRAVELLER. 

While  e'en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictured  here, 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear ! 
Too  blest  indeed  were  such  without  alloy  ; 
But,  fostered  e'en  by  Freedom,  ills  annoy ; 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high, 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie  i 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone, 
'All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown ; 
Here,  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell'd ; 
Ferments  arise,  imprison 'd  factions  roar, 
Represt  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore  ;      *     >, 
Till,  overwrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motion  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 
Nor  this  the  worst.     As  Nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honor  fail  to  sway, 
Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown  ; 
Till  time  may  come,  when  stript  of  all  her  charms, 
The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms,         >\ 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toil'd,  and  poets  wrote  for  fame, 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonor'd  die. 

But  think  not,  thus  when  Freedom's  ills  I  state, 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings,  or  court  the  great : 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 


THE    TRAVELLER.  81 

Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire  ! 
And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage,  and  tyrant's  angry  steel; 
Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone  / 

By  proud  contempt,  or  favor's  fostering  sun  — 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure 
(  only  would  repress  them  to  secure  : 
For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 
That  those  that  think  must  govern  those  that  toil ; 
And  all  that  Freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach, 
"Is  but  to  lay  proportion'd  loads  on  each. 
Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion'd  grow, 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

Oh,  then,  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires, 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires  ! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 
Except  when  fast  approaching  danger  warms : 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne, 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own  ; 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free, 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 
kaws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law;        > 
!Che  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 
Pillaged  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home,  •• — 
Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation,  start, 
Tear  off  reserve,  and  bear  my  swelling  heart ! 
Till,  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 
I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour, 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power ; 


82  THE  TRAVELLER. 

And  thus,  polluting  honor  in  its  source, 

Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 

Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled  shore, 

Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore  ? 

Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 

Like  flaring  tapers  brightening  as  they  waste  ? 

Seen  Opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 

Lead  stern  Depopulation  in  her  train, 

And  over  fields,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 

In  barren,  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 

Have  we  not  seen,  at  Pleasure's  lordly  call, 

The  smiling,  long-frequented  village  fall  ?  • 

Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay 'd, 

The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 

Forced  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 

To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main, 

Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 

And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound  ? 

E'en  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim  strays 
Through  tangled  forests,  and  through  dangerous  way* 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim, 
And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murderous  aim ; 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 
The  pensive  exile,  bending  with 

stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine, 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathize  with  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind : 
Why  have  I  stray'd  from  pleasure  and  repose, 


THE    TRAVELLER.  83 


To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings,  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
"Sow  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure  ? 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign'd, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find  : 
With  secret  course  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damien's  bed  of  steel, 
To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  our  own 


THE 

DESERTED    VILLAGE. 


TO  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS. 

DEAR  SIR. —  I  can  have  no  expectations,  in  an  address  o! 
this  kind,  either  to  add  to  your  reputation,  or  to  establish 
my  own.  You  can  gain  nothing  from  my  admiration,  aa  I 
am  ignorant  of  that  art  in  which  you  are  said  to  excel :  and 
I  may  lose  much  by  the  severity  of  your  judgment,  as  few 
have  a  juster  taste  in  poetry  than  you.  Setting  interest, 
therefore,  aside,  to  which  I  never  paid  much  attention,  I 
must  be  indulged  at  present  in  following  my  affections.  The 
only  dedication  I  ever  made  was  to  my  brother,  because  I 
loved  him  better  than  most  other  men.  He  is  since  dead. 
Permit  me  to  inscribe  this  Poem  to  you. 

How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versification  and 
mere  mechanical  parts  of  this  attempt,  i  do  not  pretend  to 
inquire ;  but  I  know  you  will  object  (and,  indeed,  several  of 
our  best  and  wisest  friends  concur  in  the  opinion),  that  the 
depopulation  it  deplores  is  no  where  to  be  seen,  and  the  dis- 
orders it  laments  are  only  to  be  found  in  the  poet's  own  im- 
agination. To  this  I  can  scarcely  make  any  other  answer, 
than  that  I  sincerely  believe  what  I  have  written ;  that  I 
have  taken  all  possible  pains,  in  my  country  excursions,  for 
these  four  or  five  years  past,  to  be  certain  of  what  T  allege, 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE.  85 

and  that  all  my  views  and  inquiries  have  led  me  to  believe 
those  miseries  real,  which  I  here  attempt  to  display.  But 
this  is  not  the  place  to  enter  into  an  inquiry  whether  the 
country  be  depopulating  or  not :  the  discussion  would  take 
up  much  room,  and  I  should  prove  myself,  at  best,  an  indif- 
ferent politician,  to  tire  the  reader  with  a  long  preface,  when 
I  want  his  unfatigued  attention  to  a  long  poem. 

In  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  I  inveigh,* 
against  the  increase  of  our  luxuries;  and  here  also  I  expect 
the  shout  of  modern  politicians  against  me.  For  twenty  or 
thirty  years  past,  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  consider  luxury 
as  one  of  the  greatest  national  advantages ;  and  all  the  wis- 
dom of  antiquity  in  that  particular  as  erroneous.  Still,  how- 
ever, I  must  remain  a  professed  ancient  on  that  head,  and 
continue  to  think  those  luxuries  prejudicial  to  states  by  which 
so  many  vices  are  introduced,  and  so  many  kingdoms  have  :" 
been  undone.  Indeed,  so  much  has  been  poured  out  of  late 
on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  that  merely  for  the  sake 
of  novelty  and  variety,  one  would  sometimes  wish  to  be  in 
the  right. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 
Your  sincere  friend,  and  ardent  admirer, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


THE   DESERTED   VILLAGE.* 


SWEET  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  laboring  swain, 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay'd  : 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 

How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene  ! 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighboring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  ! 

How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day, 


*  The  locality  of  this  poem  is  supposed  to  be  Lissoy,  near  Ballyma 
han,  where  the  poet's  brother  Henry  had  his  living.  As  usual  in 
such  cases,  the  place  afterwards  became  the  fashionable  resort  of 
poetical  pilgrims,  and  paid  the  customary  penalty  of  furnishing 
relics  for  the  curious.  The  hawthorn  bush  has  been  converted  into 
snuff-boxes,  and  now  adorns  the  cabinets  of  poetical  virtuosi. 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  87 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ; 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolic'd  o'er  the  ground, 

And  slights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round ; 

And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place ; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove : 

These  were   thy  charms,  sweet  village !    sports,  like 

these 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please ; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 
These  W££g  thy  chltrms — -but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ! 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  the  grassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  chocked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries : 


88  THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall  ,* 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

\         Tl|  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  il^s  n  prevT 
Whrrn  wnlth  accumulates^amLjn^n_decay ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's 

jince  destroyed,  can  neverljg  supplied. 
A  timetnere  was,  ere  England^  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man  : 
For  him  light  Labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more ; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 
But  times  are  alter'd ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  p%mp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brighten'd  all  the  green, — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 

v .     And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 
»         Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  89 

Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given  my  share  — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose : 
I  still  had  hopes  —  for  pride  attends  us  still  — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  shew  my  book-learn'd  skill. 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw ; 
And  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreat  from  cares,  that  never  must  be  mine ! 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend ; 
8* 


90  THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay. 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose ; 
There,  as  I  past  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  soft'd  from  below ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young ; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind, — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail ; 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot-way  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled, 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring  ; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild, 
,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  91 

The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a-year : 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wish'd  to  change,  his  place 

Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 

By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour ; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain ; 

The  long-remember 'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd ; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away, 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe : 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side  ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt,  for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 


92  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remaiu'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  ready  zeal  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
E'en  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprcss'd ; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distress'd ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom'd  furze,  unprofitably  gay, 
There  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 

day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee, 


THE   DESERTED  VILLAGE.  93 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd. 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write  and  cipher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  —  that  he  could  gauge : 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 
For  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thund'ring  sound, 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 
But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  graybeard  mirth,  and  smiling  toil,  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place : 
The  white-wash'd  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  draws  by  day; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose- : 


94  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay  ; 
While  broken  tea  cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendors  !     Could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart  : 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail  ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  pond'rous  strength,  and  learn  to  hear. 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train  ; 

to  my 


One  native  charm,  than  all  the  {(loss  of  art. 

Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway 

Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 

Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined  : 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array'd,  — 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 

And,  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  95 

The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy  ? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'T  is  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore ; 
Hoards,  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish,  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains ;  this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss :  the  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth, 
Has  robb'd  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth  ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies  :  — 
While  thus  the  land,  adorn'd-for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  its  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms    are  past  —  for  charms  p-re 

frail  — 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress : 


96  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Thus  iares  the  land,  by  luxury  be  tray 'd : 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd : 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 
While  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 
j<The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band, 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where,  then,  ah !  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creatures'  wo. 
Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  his  sickly  trade ; 
Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train ; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?  — Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  .       97 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies  i 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  best, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest :     - 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn : 

Now  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And,  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread ! 

Ah,  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex-world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama*  murmurs  to  their  wo. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm'd  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  Clusters  cling ; 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crown'd, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 


*  The  Altama  (or  Altamaha)  is  a  river  in  the  province  (A  Georgia, 
United  States. 


98  THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

*/ 

•    The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 

ere  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men,  more  murd'rous  still  than  they ; 

j  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
ingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies, 
ar  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
^The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 

breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that  parting  da} 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their  lasl 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main ; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep! 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  wo ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave  : 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms : 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear, 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  99 

O  luxury  !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own : 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwiedy  wo  ; 
Till,  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound^ 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round, 

E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  Virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  safi 
^  That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downward  they  move  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderness,  are  there ; 
And  Piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame ; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  wo, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so j 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 


100  THE    DESKKTKI)    VILLAGE. 

Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  weil ! 
Farewell ;  and  oh !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigors  of  th'  inclement  clime ; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest, 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest: 

trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labor'd  mole  away ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  aky. 


I 
THE    HERMIT. 


A  BALLAD. 


fhe  following  letter,  addressed  to  the  printer  of  the  St.  James's 
Chronicle,  appeared  in  that  paper  in  June,  1767. 

SIR, —  As  there  is  nothing  I  dislike  so  much  as  newspaper 
controversy,  particularly  upon  trifles,  permit  me  to  be  as  con- 
cise as  possible  in  informing  a  correspondent  of  yours,  that  I 
recommended  Blainville's  Travels,  because  I  thought  the 
book  was  a  good  one.  and  I  think  so  still.  I  said  I  was  told 
by  the  bookseller  that  it  was  then  first  published,  but  in  that 
it  seems  I  was  misinformed,  and  my  reading  was  not  exten- 
sive enough  to  set  me  right. 

Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of  having  tak- 
en a  ballad  I  published  some  time  ago,  from  one*  by  the  in- 
genious Mr.  Percy.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  great  resem- 
blance between  the  two  pieces  in  question.  If  there  be  any  his 
ballad  is  taken  from  mine.  I  read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some  years 
ago ;  and  he  (as  we  both  considered  these  things  as  trifles  at 
best)  told  me  with  his  usual  good  humor  the  next  time  I  saw 
him,  that  he  had  taken  my  plan  to  form  the  fragments  of  Shak- 
speare  into  a  ballad  of  his  own.  He  then  read  me  his  little  Cen- 

*  Friar  of  Orders  Gray.  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry,  vol.  i,  book  2, 
No.  17. 

9* 


162  -•    '  •  THE    HERMIT. 

to, .if  I  naajr  30  call,  it,  and  ,1  highly  approved  it.  Such  petty  an 
ecdctcs  as  +!iesea/e,  sca/cejy^orth  printing ;  and,  were  it  not 
for  the  busy  disposition  of  some  of  your  correspondents,  the 
public  should  never  have  known  that  he  owes  me  the  hint 
of  his  ballad,  or  that  I  am  obliged|p  his  friendship  and  learning 
for  communications  of  a  much  more  important  nature. — I 
am,  Sir,  yours,  etc.,  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


THE   HERMIT. 


TURN,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 
And  guide  my  lonely  way, 

To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow, 

"Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  length'ning  as  I  go.' 

*  Forbear,  my  son,'  the  Hermit  cries, 
'  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

'  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

4  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate'er  my  cell  bestows ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 
My  blessing  and  repose. 


104  THE    HERMIT. 

*  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free, 

To  slaughter  I  condemn ; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 
I  learn  to  pity  them ; 

'  But  from  tne  mountain's  grassy  side, 
A  guiltless  feast  I  bring ; 

A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

*  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long.' 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell : 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  the  wilderness  obscure, 

The  lonely  mansion  lay, 
A  refuge  to  the  neighb'ring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 
Required  a  master's  care  ; 

The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 
Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 
To  take  their  evening  rest, 

The  Hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 
And  cheer M  his  pensive  guest : 


THE    HERMIT.  105 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 

And  gaily  press'd  and  smiled  § 
And,  skill'd  in  legendary  lore, 

The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries, 
The  criket  chirrups  on  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 

To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe ; 
For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 

With  answering  care  oppress'd; 
And,  '  Whence,  unhappy  youth/  he  cried, 

'  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

1  From  better  habitations  spurn'd, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn'd, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

'Alas !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings, 

Are  trifling,  and  decay  ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

'And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep ; 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 


106  THE    HERMIT. 

'And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair  one's  jest ; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

'  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,'  he  said ; 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 

Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 
Swift  mantling  to  the  view ; 

Like  colors  o'er  the  morning  skies, 
As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confess'd, 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

And,  'Ah !  forgive  a  stranger  rude  — 
A  wretch  forlorn,'  she  cried ; 

'Whose  feet  uuhallow'd  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

*  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray ; 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

'-  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he : 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine, 
He  had  but  only  me. 


THE    HERMIT. 


107 


4  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumber'd  suitors  came, 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 

And  felt,  or  feign'd,  a  name. 

*  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 

With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 
Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd- 
But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

'  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

'And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale, 

He  caroll'd  lays  of  love, 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 

And  music  to  the  grove.* 

*  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 
Could  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

*  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 

With  charms  inconstant  shine ; 
Their  charms  were  his,  but,  wo  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

*This  stanza  was  preserved  by  Richard  Archdale,  Esq.,  a  mem 
her  of  the  Irish  Parliament,  to  whom  it  was  given  by  Goldsmith, 
and  was  first  inserted  after  the  author's  death. 


i08  THE    HERMIT. 

'  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  a*nd  vain ; 
And  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  heart 

I  triumph 'd  in  his  pain  ; 

*  Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride ; 

And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

*  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 
And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

'And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 
I'll  lay  me  down  and  die  ; 

'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 
And  so  for  him  will  I.' 

'Forbid  it,  Heaven ! '  the  Hermit  cried, 
And  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast ; 

The  wondering  fair  one  turn'd  to  chide  - 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  press'd ! 

'  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

'  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 

And  every  care  resign  : 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life  • —  my  all  that 's  mine. 


THE    HERMIT.  109 

No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true, 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too. 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON.* 

A  POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO   LORD  CLARE. 

THANKS,  my  lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  or  fatter 
Ne'er  ranged  in  a  forest,  or  smoked  in  a  platter. 
The'  haunch  \vzis  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 
The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy ; 
Though  my  siomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce  help 

regretting 

To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating : 
I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chamber  to  place  it  in  view 
To  be  shewn  10  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu ; 
As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so  so, 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show ; 
But  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  prids  in, 
They'd  us  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fried  in. 
But  hokt  — let  me  pause — don't  I  hear  you  pronounce, 
This  tale  of  the  bacon's  a  damnable  bounce  ? 
Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce  —  sure  a  poet  may  try, 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to  fly. 
But,  my  lord,  it's  no  bounce  :  I  protest,  in  my  turn, 


*The  description  of  the  dinner  party  in  this  poem  is  imitated 
from  I'.oileau  h  fourth  Satire.  Boileau  himself  took  the  hint  from 
Horace,  Lil.  ii  Sat.  8,  which  has  also  been  imitated  by  Regnier, 
8at.  10. 


THE    HAUNCH    OF    VENISON.  Ill 

It's  a  truth,  and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr.  Burn.* 

To  go  on  with  my  tale  :    a  I  gazed  on  the  haunch, 

I  thought  of  a  friend  that  was  trusty  and  staunch, 

So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undrest, 

To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  best. 

Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose  — 

'T  was  a  neck  and  a  breast  that  might  rival  Munro's  ; 

But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again, 

With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and  the 

when. 

There's  H  —  d,  and  C— y,  and  H— rth,  and  H— if, 
I  think  they  love  venison  —  I  know  they  love  beef ; 
There's  my  countryman,  Higgins  —  oh!  let  him  alone 
For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone : 
But,  hang  it !  to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat, 
Your  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat ; 
Such  dainties  to  them  their  health  it  might  hurt ; 
It's  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  wanting  a  shirt. 

While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  centred, 
An  acquaintance  —  a  friend,  as  he  call'd  himself  — 

enter'd ; 

An  under-bred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he, 
And  he  smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  venison  and  me, — 
'  What  have  you  got  here  ?  — Why,  this  is  good  eating 
Your  own,  I  suppose  —  or  is  it  in  waiting  ?  ' 
'  Why,  whose  should  it  be  ? '  cried  I,  with  a  flounce, 
*  I  get  these  things  often' —  but  that  was  a  bounce : 
1  Some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the  nation, 
Are  pleased  to  be  kind  —  but  I  hate  ostentation.' 

*Lord  Clare's  nephew. 


112  THE    HAUNCH    OF    VENISON. 

*  If  that  be  the  case,  then,'  cried  he,  very  gay, 
'  I'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way : 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me ; 
No  words  —  1  insist  on't —  precisely  at  three; 
We'll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke, —  all  the  wits  will  be 

there : 

My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I'd  ask  my  Lord  Clare. 
And,  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner, 
We  wanted  this  vension  to  make  out  a  dinner. 
What  say  you  —  a  pasty?  it  shall,  and  it  must, 
And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 
Here,  porter  —  this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-end : 
No  stirring,  I  beg  —  my  dear  friend, —  my  dear  friend.' 
Thus,  snatching  his  hat,  he  brush 'd  off  like  the  wind, 
And  the  porter  and  eatables  follow'd  behind. 

Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 
Amd  'nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself; '  * 
Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman  hasty, 
Yet  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty, 
Were  things  that  I  never  disliked  in  my  life, 
Though  clogg'd  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his  wife. 
So  next  day,  in  due  splendour  to  make  my  approach, 
I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney-coach. 

When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to  dine, 
(A  chair-lumbered  closet,  just  twelve  feet  by  nine), 
My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite  dumb 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would  not  come ; 
'  For  I  knew  it,'  he  cried,  '  both  eternally  fail, 


*  See  the  letters  that  passed  between  his  Royal  Highness  Henry 
Duke  of  Cumberland,  and  Lady  Grosvenor.    12mo.  1769. 


THE    HAUNCH    OF    VENISON.  113 

The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t'other  with  Thrale:  * 
But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the  party 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew : 
They're  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors  like  you : 
The  one  writes  the  Snarler,  the  other  the  Scourge ; 
Some  thinks  he  writes  China  —  he  owns  to  Panurge.' 
While  thus  he  described  them,  by  trade  and  by  name, 
They  enter'd,  and  dinner  was  served  as  they  came. 

At  the  top,  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen ; 
At  the  bottom,  was  tripe  in  a  swinging  tureen ; 
At  the  sides,  there  was  spinage,  and  pudding  made  hot ; 
In  the  middle,  a  place  where  the  pasty  —  was  not. 
Now,  my  lord,  as  for  tripe,  it's  my  utter  aversion, 
And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persian ; 
So  there  I  sat  stuck  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 
While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round: 
But  what  vex'd  me  most  was  that  d 'd  Scottish 

rogue, 
With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his   smiles,  and  his 

brogue ; 

And,  '  Madam,'  quoth  he,  '  may  this  bit  be  my  poison, 
A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on  : 
Pray,  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though  may  I  be  curst, 
But  I've  ate  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to  burst.' 
'  The  tripe ! '  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  chocolate  cheek, 
'  I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  a  week : 
I  like  these  here  dinners,  so  pretty  and  small ; 


*  An  eminent  London  brewer,  M.  P.,  for  the  borough  of  South* 
wark,  at  whose  table  Dr.  Johnson  was  a  frequent  guest. 

10* 


114  THE    HAUNCH    OF    VENISON. 

But  your  friend  there,  the  Doctor,  eats  nothing  at  all 

*  O  ho ! '  quoth  my  friend,  *  he'll  come  on  in  a  trice. 
He's  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's  nice  : 
There's  a  pasty.' —  <  A  pasty ! '  repeated  the  Jew, 

*  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too.' 

'  What,  the  deil,  mon,  a  pasty ! '  re-echoed  the  Scot, 
'  Though  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  that.' 
'  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,'  the  lady  cried  out ; 
1  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,'  was  echo'd  about. 
While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delay'd, 
With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  enter'd  the  maid : 
A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright, 
Waked  Priam,  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night 
But  we  quickly  found  out  —  for  who  could  mistake 

her?- 
That  she  came   with   some    terrible  news    from    the 

baker : 

And  so  it  fell  out ;  for  that  negligent  sloven 
Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 
Sad  Philomel  thus  —  but  let  similes  drop  — 
And  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop. 

To  be  plain,  my  good  lord,  it's  but  labor  misplacedf 
To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste ; 
You've  got  an  odd  something  —  a  kind  of  discerning. 
A  relish  —  a  taste  —  sicken'd  over  by  learning ; 
At  least  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known, 
That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your  own, 
So  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss, 
You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of  this. 


RETALIATION, 


Dr.  Goldsmith  and  some  of  his  friends  occasionally  dined  at  the 
St.  James's  Coffee-house.  One  day,  it  was  proposed  to  write  epi- 
taphs on  him.  His  country,  dialect,  and  person,  furnished  sub- 
jects of  witticism.  He  was  called  on  for  Retaliation,  and,  at  their 
next  meeting,  produced  the  following  poem. 

OF  old,  when  Scarron  his  companion  invited, 
Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united  -, 
If  our  landlord*  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish, 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself,  and  he  brings  the  best 

dish : 

Our  Dean|  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains; 
Our  Burke$  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of  brains ; 
Our  Will  §  shall  be  wild-fowl  of  excellent  flavor, 
And  Dick  ||  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the  savor  ; 

*  The  master  of  the  St.  James's  Coffee-house,  where  the  Doctor 
and  the  friends  he  has  characterized  in  this  poem,  occasionally 
dined. 

t  Doctor  Barnard,  Dean  of  Derry,  in  Ireland,  afterwards  Bishop 
of  Killaloe. 

\  The  Right  Hon.  Edmund  Burke. 

§  Mr.  William  Burke,  formerly  secretary  to  Genera?  Conway  and 
member  for  Bedwin. 

||  Mr.  Richard  Burke,  collector  of  Granada. 


116  RETALIATION. 

Our  Cumberland's*  sweetbread  its  place  shall  obtain, 
And  Douglasf  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain ; 
Our  Garrick's  t  a  salad,  for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree : 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am,  . 

That  Ridge  §  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  ||  is  lamb ; 
That  Mickey's  If  a  capon,  and,  by  the  same  rule, 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 
At  a  dinner  so  various  —  at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  I'm  able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 
Let"  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 

Here  lies  the  good  Dean,  reunited  to  earth, 
Who  mixed  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with 

mirth  : 

If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt  — 
At  least,  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  'em  out ; 
Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  be  denied  'em, 
That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em. 


*  Mr.  Richard  Cumberland,  author  of  The  West  Indian,  The  Jew, 
and  other  dramatic  works. 

t  Doctor  Douglas,  Canon  of  Windsor,  and  afterwards  Bishop  of 
Salisbury,  was  himself  a  native  of  Scotland,  and  obtained  consider 
able  reputation  by  his  detection  of  the  forgeries  of  his  countrymen, 
Lauder  and  Bower. 

$  David  Garrick,  Esq. 

§  Counsellor  John  Ridge,  a  gentleman  belonging  to  the  Irish 
bar. 

||  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

IT  An  eminent  attorney. 


RETALIATION.  117 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much ; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow'd  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind ; 
Though  fraught  with  all   learning,  yet  straining  his 

throat, 

To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend*  to  lend  him  a  vote ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And    thought  of  convincing,  while   they  thought   of 

dining :  f 

Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit ; 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 
For  a  patriot,  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge  disobedient ; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemploy'd  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a  mint, 
While  the  owner  n'er  knew  half  the  good  that  was  in't : 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forced  him  along, 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong ; 
Still  aiming  at  honor,  yet  fearing  to  roam, 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home. 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits  ?  alas  !  he  had  none  ; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were  his  own. 

*  Mr.  T.  Townshend,  member  for  Whitchurch,  afterwards  Lord 
Sydney. 

t  Mr.  Burke' s  speeches  in  Parliament,  though  distinguished  by 
all  the  force  of  reasoning  and  eloquence  of  their  highly-gifted 
author,  were  not  always  listened  to  with  patience  by  his  brother 
members,  who  not  unfrequently  took  the  opportunity  of  retiring 
to  dinner  when  he  rose  to  speak.  To  this  circumstance,  which 
procured  for  the  orator  the  sobriquet  of  the  Dinner  Bell,  allusion  IB 
here  made. 


118  RETALIATION. 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh  at ; 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet ! 
What  spirits  were  his !  what  wit  and  what  whim '. 
Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb !  * 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball 
Now  teasing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all ! 
In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 
That  we  wish'd  him  full  ten  times  a-day  at  Old  Nick, 
But  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 
As  often  we  wish'd  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts ; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are. 
His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  Comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine ; 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out, 
Or  rather  like  Tragedy  giving  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd, 
Of  virtues  and  feelings,  that  Folly  grows  proud ; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their  own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught  ? 
Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault  ? 
Say,  was  it,  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 


*Mr.  Richard  Burke  having  slightly  fractured  an  arm  and  a 
leg  at  different  times,  the  Doctor  has  rallied  him  on  these  acci- 
dents, as  a  kind  of  retributive  justice,  for  breaking  jests  upon 
other  people. 


RETALIATION.  119 

He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself  ? 

Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax, 
The  scourge  of  imposters,  the  terror  of  quacks  : 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  divines, 
Come,  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant  reclines. 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  fear'd  for  your  safety,  I  fear'd  for  my  own  ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 
Our  Dodds  *  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenricks  f  shall  lec- 
ture ; 

Macpherson  $  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style ; 
Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  compile : 
New  Lauders§  and  Bowers||  the  Tweed  shall  cross  over, 
No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover ; 
Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark, 
And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  the  dark, 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can, 

*  The  Rev.  Dr.  Dodd,  who  was  executed  for  forgery. 

t  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  read  lectures  at  the  Devil  Tavern,  under  the 
title  of  '  The  School  of  Shakspeare.'  He  was  a  well-known  writer, 
of  prodigious  versatility,  and  some  talent.  Dr.  Johnson  observed 
of  him, '  He  is  one  of  the  many  who  have  made  themselves  public, 
without  making  themselves  known.' 

t  James  Macpherson,  Esq.,  who  from  the  mere  force  of  his  style, 
wrote  down  the  first  poet  of  all  antiquity. 

§  William  Lauder,  who,  by  interpolating  certain  passages  from 
the  Adamus  Exul  of  Grotius,  with  translations  from  Paradise  Lost, 
endeavored  to  fix  on  Milton  a  charge  of  plagiarism  from  the  modern 
Latin  poets.  Dr.  Douglas  detected  and  exposed  this  imposture, 
and  extorted  from  the  author  a  confession  and  apology. 

||  Archibald  Bower,  a  Scottish  Jesuit,  and  author  of  a  History  of 
the  Popes  from  St.  Peter  to  Lambertini.  Dr.  Douglas  convicted 
Bower  of  gross  imposture,  and  totally  destoyed  the  credit  of  hie 
history. 


120  RETALIATION. 

An  abridgement  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man ; 

As  an  actor,  confess'd  without  rival  to  shine, 

As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line  : 

Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 

The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 

Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colors  he  spread, 

And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 

'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 

He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day  : 

Though  secure  of  our  hearts  yet  confoundedly  sick, 

If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick : 

He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 

For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them 

back. 

Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow'd  what  came, 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 
Till  his  relish,  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 
Who  pepper'd  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,*  and  Woodfalls  f  so  grave, 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you 

gave ! 

How  did  Grub-street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised, 
While  he  was  be-Boscius'd,  and  you  were  be-praised ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 
To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies : 

*Mr.  Hugh  Kelly,  originally  a  staymaker,  afterwards  a  newspa- 
per editor  and  dramatist,  and  latterly  a  barrister, 
t  Mr.  William  Woodfall,  printer  of  tbe  Morning  Chronicle 


RETALIATION.  121 

Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 
Old  Shakspeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt,  pleasant  creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good  nature ; 
He  cherish'd  his  friend,  and  he  relish'd  a  bumper ; 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser  ? 
I  answer,  No,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser. 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that. 
Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?  Ah,  no ! 
Then  what  was  his  failing  ?  come  tell  it,  and  burn  ye  : 
He  was,  could  he  help  it  ?  a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind ; 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand, 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland : 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judged  without  skill,  he  was  still  hard  of 

hearing : 
When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Corregios,  and 

stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,*  and  only  took  snuff. 

*  Sir  Joslraa  Reynolds  was  BO  deaf  as  to  be  under  the  necessity  of 
using  an  ea  '-trumpet  in  company. 

u 


122  RETALIATION. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

After  the  fourth  edition  of  this  poem  was  printed,  the  publisher 
received  the  following  epitaph  on  Mr.  Whitefoord,*  from  a  friend 
of  the  late  Dr.  Goldsmith. 

HERE  Whitefoord  reclines,  and,  deny  it  who  can, 
Though  he  merrily  lived,  he  is  now  a  grave  man :  f 
Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun ! 
Who  relish'd  a  joke,  and  rejoiced  in  a  pun ; 
Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere, ; 
A  stranger  to  flattery,  a  stranger  to  fear ; 
Who  scatter'd  around  wit  and  humor  at  will ; 
Whose  daily  bon  mots  half  a  column  might  fill : 
A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice  free; 
A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he. 

What  pity,  alas !  that  so  liberal  a  mind 
Should  so  long  be  to  newspaper  essays  confined ! 
Who  perhaps  to  the  summit  of  science  could  soar, 
Yet  content  if  '  the  table  he  set  in  a  roar : ' 
Whose  talents  to  fill  any  station  were  fit, 
Yet  happy  if  Woodfall  t  confess'd  him  a  wit. 

Ye  newspaper  witlings,  ye  pert  scribbling  folks ! 
Who  copied  his  squibs,  and  re-echoed  his  jokes ; 
Ye  tame  imitators,  ye  servile  herd,  come, 
Still  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb ; 
To  deck  it,  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 

*Mr.  Caleb  Whitefoord,  author  of  many  humorous  essays. 

fMr.  Whitefoord  was  so  notorious  a  punster,  that  Dr.  Goldsmith 
nsed  to  say  it  was  impossible  to  keep  him  company,  without  being 
infected  with  the  itch  of  punning. 

JMr,  H.  S.  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Public  Advertiser. 


RETALIATION.  123 

And  copious  libations  bestow  on  his  shrine  ; 

Then  strew  all  around  it  (you  can  do  no  less) 

Cross  Readings,  Ship  News,  and  Mistakes  of  the  Press.* 

Merry  Whitefoord,  farewell !  for  thy  sake  I  admit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humor,  I  had  almost  said  wit ; 
This  debt  to  thy  memory  I  cannot  refuse, 

Thou  best-humor'd   man    with    the    worst-humor'd 
Muse. 


THE 

DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION. 


SECLUDED  from  domestic  strife, 

Jack  Book-worm  led  a  college  life ; 

A  fellowship  at  twenty-five 

Made  him  the  happiest  man  alive ; 

He  drank  his  glass,  and  cracked  his  joke, 

And  freshmen  wonder'd  as  he  spoke. 

Such  pleasures,  unalloy'd  with  care, 
Could  any  accident  impair  ? 
Could  Cupid's  shaft  at  length  transfix 
Our  swain,  arrived  at  thirty-six  ? 

Oh,  had  the  archer  ne'er  come  down 
To  ravage  in  a  country  town ! 
Or  Flavia  been  content  to  stop 

*  Mr.  Whitefoord  had  frequently  indulged  the  town  with  humor- 
ous  pieces  under  those  titles  in  the  Public  Advertiser. 


124  THE    DOUBLE    TRANSFORMATION. 

At  triumphs  in  a  Fleet  Street  shop ! 

Oh,  had  her  eyes  forgot  to  blaze ! 

Or  Jack  had  wanted  eyes  to  gaze ! 

Oh ! —  but  let  exclamation  cease, 

Her  presence  banished  all  his  peace ; 

So  with  decorum  all  things  carried, 

Miss  f rown'd,  and  blush'd,  and  then  was  —  married. 

Need  we  expose  to  vulgar  sight 
The  raptures  of  the  bridal  night  ? 
Need  we  intrude  on  hallow'd  ground, 
Or  draw  the  curtains  closed  around  ? 
Let  it  suffice  that  each  had  charms : 
He  clasped  a  goddess  in  his  .arms  ; 
And  though  she  felt  his  usage  rough, 
Yet  in  a  man  'twas  well  enough. 

The  honey-moon  like  lightning  flew, 
The  second  brought  its  transports  too  ; 
A  third,  a  fourth,  were  not  amiss, 
The  fifth  was  friendship  mixed  with  bliss : 
But,  when  a  twelvemonth  passed  away, 
Jack  found  his  goddess  made  of  clay ; 
Found  half  the  charms  that  deck'd  her  face 
Arose  from  powder,  shreds,  or  lace ; 
But  still  the  worst  remain 'd  behind, — 
That  very  face  had  robb'd  her  mind. 

Skill'd  in  no  other  arts  was  she, 
But  dressing,  patching,  repartee  ; 
And,  just  as  humor  rose  or  fell, 
By  turns  a  slattern  or  a  belle. 
'Tis  true  she  dressed  with  modern  grace, 
Half  naked,  at  a  ball  or  race ; 


THE    DOUBLE    TRANSFORMATION.  125 

But  when  at  home,  at  board  or  bed, 

Five  greasy  nightcaps  wrapp'd  her  head. 

Could  so  much  beauty  condescend 

To  be  a  dull,  domestic  friend  ? 

Could  any  curtain -lectures  bring 

To  decency  so  fine  a  thing ! 

In  short,  by  night,  'twas  fits  or  fretting ; 

By  day,  'twas  gadding  or  coquetting. 

Fond  to  be  seen,  she  kept  a  bevy 

Of  powdered  coxcombs  at  her  levee ; 

The  squire  and  captain  took  their  stations, 

And  twenty  other  near  relations : 

Jack  suck'd  his  pipe,  and  often  broke 

A  sigh  in  suffocating  smoke ; 

While  all  their  hours  were  pass'd  between 

Insulting  repartee  and  spleen. 

Thus  as  her  faults  each  day  were  known,, 
He  thinks  her  features  coarser  grown  ; 
He  fancies  every  vice  she  shews, 
Or  thins  her  lips,  or  points  her  nose : 
Whenever  rage  or  envy  rise, 
How  wide  her  mouth,  how  wild  her  eyes! 
He  knows  not  how,  but  so  it  is, 
Her  face  is  grown  a  knowing  phiz  ; 
And,  though  her  fops  are  wondrous  civil, 
He  thinks  her  ugly  as  the  devil. 

Now,  to  perplex  the  ravell'd  noose, 
As  each  a  different  way  pursues, 
While  sullen  or  loquacious  strife 
Promised  to  hold  them  on  for  life, 
That  dire  disease,  whose  ruthless  power 


126  THE    DOUBLE    TRANSFORMATION. 

Withers  the  beauty's  transient  flower,— 
Lo !  the  small  pox,  with  horrid  glare, 
Levell'd  its  terrors  at  the  fair ; 
And,  rifling  every  youthful  grace. 
Left  but  the  remnant  of  a  face. 

The  glass,  grown  hateful  to  her  sight, 
Reflected  now  a  perfect  fright : 
Each  former  art  she  vainly  tries 
To  bring  back  lustre  to  her  eyes ; 
In  vain  she  tries  her  paste  and  creams 
To  smooth  her  skin,  or  hide  its  seams ; 
Her  country  beaux  and  city  cousins, 
Lovers  no  more,  flew  off  by  dozens  ; 
The  squire  himself  was  seen  to  yield, 
And  e'en  the  captain  quit  the  field. 

Poor  madam,  now  condemn'd  to  hack 
The  rest  of  life  with  anxious  Jack, 
Perceiving  others  fairly  flown, 
Attempted  pleasing  him  alone. 
Jack  soon  was  dazzled  to  behold 
Her  present  face  surpass  the  old : 
With  modesty  her  cheeks  are  dyed, 
Humility  displaces  pride ; 
For  tawdry  finery  is  seen 
A  person  ever  neatly  clean ; 
No  more  presuming  on  her  sway, 
She  learns  good  nature  every  day : 
Serenely  gay,  and  strict  in  duty, 
Jack  finds  his  wife  a  perfect  beauty. 


THE    GIFT. 

THE  GIFT.* 

TO  IRIS,  IN  BOW  STREET,  COVENT  GARDEN. 

SAY,  cruel  Iris,  pretty  rake, 

Dear  mercenary  beauty, 
What  annual  offering  shall  I  make 

Expressive  of  my  duty  ? 

My  heart,  a  victim  to  thine,  eyes, 

Should  I  at  once  deliver, 
Say,  would  the  angry  fair  one  prize 

The  gift,  who  slights  the  giver  ? 

A  bill,  a  jewel,  watch,  or  toy, 
My  rivals  give  —  and  let  'em : 

If  gems,  or  gold,  impart  a  joy, 
I'll  give  them  —  when  I  get  'em. 

I'll  give  —  but  not  the  full-blown  rose, 
Or  rose-bud  more  in  fashion  ; 

Such  short-lived  offerings  but  disclose 
A  transitory  passion  — 


I'll  give  thee  something  yet  unpaid, 
Not  less  sincere  than  civil, — 

I'll  give  thee  —  ah !  too  charming 
I'll  give  thee  —  to  the  Devil ! 

*  Imitated  from  Grecourt,  a  witty  French 


128  AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG. 

GOOD  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song, 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 
It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes ; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 
The  wond'ring  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 


THE    LOGICIANS    REFUTED.  129 

The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  show'd  the  rogues  they  lied : 

The  man  recover'd  of  the  bite  — 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


THE  LOGICIANS  REFUTED.* 

IN  IMITATATION  OF  DEAN  SWIFT. 

LOGICIANS  have  but  ill  denned 

As  rational  the  human  mind : 

Reason,  they  say,  belongs  to  man, 

But  let  them  prove  it  if  they  can. 

Wise  Aristotle  and  Smiglesius, 

By  ratiocinations  specious, 

Have  strove  to  prove  with  great  precision, 

With  definition  and  division,  t 

Homo  est  ratione  preditum  ; 

But  for  my  soul  I  cannot  credit  'em ; 

And  must  in  spite  of  them  maintain, 

That  man  and  all  his  ways  are  vain ; 

And  that  this  Coasted  lord  of  nature 

IB  both  a  weak  and  erring  creature  ; 

*  This  happy  imitation  was  adopted  by  his  Dublin  publisher,  as 
a  genuine  poem  of  Swift,  and  as  such  it  ha?  been  reprinted  in 
almost  every  edition  of  the  Dean's  works.  Even  Sir  Walter  Scott 
has  inserted  it  without  any  remark  in  his  edition  of  Swift's  Works. 


130  THE    LOGICIANS    REFUTED. 

That  instinct  is  a  surer  guide 

Than  reason,  boasting  mortals'  pride ; 

And  that  brute  beasts  are  far  before  'em  — 

Deus  est  anima  brutorum. 

Whoever  knew  an  honest  brute 

At  law  his  neighbor  prosecute, 

Bring  action  for  assault  and  battery  ? 

Or  friend  beguile  with  lies  and  flattery  ? 

O'er  plains  they  ramble  unconfined, 

No  politics  disturb  their  mind  ; 

They  eat  their  meals,  and  take  their  sport, 

Nor  know  who's  in  or  out  at  court : 

They  never  to  the  levee  go 

To  treat  as  dearest  friend  a  foe : 

They  never  importune  his  grace, 

Nor  ever  cringe  to  men  in  place ; 

Nor  undertake  a  dirty  job, 

Nor  draw  the  quill  to  write  for  Bob.* 

Fraught  with  invective  they  ne'er  go 

To  folks  at  Paternoster  Row : 

No  judges,  fiddlers,  dancing-masters, 

No  pickpockets,  or  poetasters, 

Are  known  to  honest  quadrupeds ; 

No  single  brute  his  fellow  leads, 

Brutes  never  meet  in  bloody  fray, 

Nor  cut  each  other's  throats  for  pay. 

Of  beasts,  it  is  confess'd,  the.  ape 

Comes  nearest  us  in  human  shape : 

Like  man,  he  imitates  each  fashion, 

*  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 


A    NEW    SIMILE.  131 

And  malice  is  his  riding  passion : 
But  both  in  malice  and  grimaces, 
A  courtier  any  ape  surpasses. 
Behold  him  humbly  cringing  wait 
Upon  the  minister  of  state ; 
View  him  soon  after  to  inferiors 
Aping  the  conduct  of  superiors : 
He  promises  with  equal  air, 
And  to  perform  takes  equal  care. 
He  in  his  turn  finds  imitators ; 
At  court  the  porters,  lacqueys,  waiters, 
Their  masters'  manners  still  contract, 
And  footmen,  lords  and  dukes  can  act. 
Thus  at  the  court,  both  great  aud  small 
Behave  alike,  for  all  ape  all. 

A  NEW  SIMILE. 

IN  THE  MANNER  OF  SWIFT. 

LONG  had  I  sought  in  vain  to  find 
A  likeness  for  the  scribbling  kind  — 
The  modern  scribbling  kind,  who  write 
In  wit,  and  sense,  and  nature's  spite  — 
Till  reading  —  I  forgot  what  day  on  — 
A  chapter  out  of  Tooke's  Pantheon, 
I  think  I  met  with  something  there 
To  suit  my  purpose  to  a  hair. 
But  let  us  not  proceed  too  furious, — 
First  please  to  turn  to  god  Mercurius ; 
You'll  find  him  pictured  at  full  length, 


132  A    NEW    SIMILK. 

In  book  the  second,  page  the  tenth ; 
The  stress  of  all  my  proofs  on  him  I  lay, 
And  now  proceed  we  to  our  simile. 

Imprimis,  pray  observe  his  hat, 
Wings  upon  either  side  —  mark  that. 
Well  ?  what  is  it  from  thence  we  gather  ? 
Why,  these  denote  a  brain  of  feather. 
A  brain  of  feather  !  very  right ; 
With  wit  that's  flighty,  learning  light ; 
Such  as  to  modern  bard's  decreed : 
A  just  comparison  —  proceed. 

In  the  next  place,  his  feet  peruse, 
Wings  grow  again  from  both  his  shoes; 
Design'd,  no  doubt,  their  part  to  bear, 
And  waft  his  godship  through  the  air : 
And  here  my  simile  unites  ; 
For  in  a  modern  poet's  flights, 
I'm  sure  it  may  be  justly  said, 
His  feet  are  useful  as  his  head. 

Lastly,  vouchsafe  t'  observe  his  hand, 
Fill'd  with  a  snake-encircled  wand, 
By  classic  authors  term'd  caduceus, 
And  highly  famed  for  several  uses  : 
To  wit, —  most  wondrously  endued, 
No  popy-water  half  so  good ; 
For  let  folks  only  get  a  touch, 
Its  soporific  virtue's  such, 
Though  ne'er  so  much  awake  before, 
That  quickly  they  begin  to  snore ; 
Add,  too,  what  certain  writers  tell. 

With  this  he  drives  men's  souls  to  hell. 


A    NEW    SIMILE.  133 

Now,  to  apply,  begin  we  then :  — 
His  wand's  a  modern  author's  pen ; 
The  serpents  round  about  it  twin'd 
Denote  him  of  the  reptile  kind, 
Denote  the  rage  with  which  he  writes, 
His  frothy  slaver,  venom'd  bites ; 
An  equal  semblance  still  to  keep, 
Alike,  too,  both  conduce  to  sleep  ; 
This  difference  only,  as  the  god 
Drove  souls  to  Tart'rus  with  his  rod, 
With  his  goose-quill  the  scribbling  elf, 
Instead  of  others,  damns  himself. 

And  here  my  simile  almost  tript, 
Yet  grant  a  word  by  way  of  postscript. 
Moreover,  Merc'ry  had  a  failing ; 
Well !  what  of  that?  out  with  it  —  stealing 
In  which  all  modern  bards  agree, 
Being  each  as  great  a  thief  as  he. 
But  e'en  this  deity's  existence 
Shall  lend  my  simile  assistance : 
Our  modern  bards !  why,  what  a  pox, 
Are  they  but  senseless  stones  and  blocks  ? 

DESCRIPTION 

•  OF  AN 

AUTHOR'S  BED-CHAMBER. 

WHERE  the  Red  Lion,  staring  o'er  the  way, 
Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay  ; 
Where  Calvert's  butt*  and  Parson's  black  champagne, 

12 


134  DESCRIPTION    OF    A    BED    CHAMBER. 

Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury-lane  : 

There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 

The  Muse  found  Scroggin  stretched  beneath  a  rug ; 

A  window,  patch'd  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 

That  dimly  show'd  the  state  in  which  he  lay ; 

The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread ; 

The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread ; 

The  royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view, 

And  the  twelve  rules  the  Royal  Martyr  drew ; 

The  Seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a  place, 

And  brave  Prince  William  show'd  his  lamp-black  face. 

The  morn  was  cold ;  he  views  with  keen  desire 

The  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire  : 

With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored, 

And  five  crack'd  tea-cups  dress'd  the  chimney  board, 

A  nightcap  deck'd  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 

A  cap  by  night  —  a  stocking  all  the  day !  * 


A  PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN   AND  SPOKEN  BY  THE  POET  LABERTOS,  A  ROMAN 
KNIGHT,  WHOM  CAESAR  FORCED  UPON  THE  8TAOB. 

[Preserved  by  Macrobius.] 

WHAT  !  no  way  left  to  shun  th'  inglorious  stage, 
And  save  from  infamy  my  sinking  age ! 
Scarce  half  alive,  oppress 'd  with  many  a  year, 
What  in  the  name  of  dotage  drives  me  here? 

*The  author  has  given,  with  a  very  slight  alteration,  a  simi 
description  of  the  alehouse  in  the  Deserted  Village. 


STANZAS.  135 

A  time  there  was   when  glory  was  my  guide, 
Nor  force  nor  fraud  could  turn  my  steps  aside ; 
Una  wed  by  power,  and  unappall'd  by  fear, 
With  honest  thrift  I  held  my  honor  dear : 
But  this  vile  hour  disperses  all  my  store, 
And  all  my  hoard  of  honor  is  no  more ; 
For,  ah !  too  partial  to  my  life's  decline, 
Caesar  persuades,  submission  must  be  mine ; 
Him  I  obey,  whom  Heaven  itself  obeys, 
Hopeless  of  pleasing,  yet  inclined  to  please. 
Here  then  at  once  I  welcome  every  shame, 
And  cancel,  at  threescore,  a  life  of  fame : 
No  more  my  titles  shall  my  children  tell. 
The  old  buffoon  will  fit  my  name  as  well : 
Thi«  day  beyond  its  term  my  fate  extends, 
For  life  is  ended  when  our  honor  ends. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  GLORY  OF  HER  SEX, 
MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE. 

GOOD  people  all,  with  one  accord, 

Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word  — 

From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  pass'd  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind ; 
She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor  — 

Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 


136  STANZAS. 

She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please 
With  manners  wondrous  winning ; 

And  never  follow'd  wicked  ways  — 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satin  new, 
With  hoop  of  monstrous  size, 

She  never  slumber'd  in  her  pew  — 
But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 
By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 

The  king  himself  has  follow'd  her — 
When  she  has  walk'd  before. 

But  now,  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 
Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all ; 

The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead  — 
Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament  in  sorrow  sore, 
For  Kent  Street  well  may  say, 

That  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more  — 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 

ON  A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUTH 

STRUCK  BLIND  BY  LIGHTNING. 

SURE,  'twas  by  Providence  design'd, 

Rather  in  pity  than  in  hate, 
That  he  should  be,  like  Cupid,  blind, 

To  save  him  from  Narcissus'  fate. 


STANZAS.  137 

THE  CLOWN'S  REPLY. 

JOHN  TROTT  was  desired  by  two  witty  peers 

To  tell  them  the  reason  why  asses  had  ears ; 

'An't  please  you,'  quoth  John,  'I'm  not  given  to  letters, 

Nor  dare  I  pretend  to  know  more  than  my  betters ; 

Howe'er  from  this  time,  I  shall  ne'er  see  your  graces— 

As  I  hope  to  be  saved ! — without  thinking  on  asses. 

EPITAPH  ON  DR.  PARNELL. 

THIS  tomb,  inscribed  to  gentle  PARNELL'S  name, 

May  speak  our  gratitude,  but  not  his  fame. 

What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly  moral  lay, 

That  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure's  flowery  way  ? 

Celestial  themes  confess'd  his  tuneful  aid ; 

And  Heaven,  that  lent  him  genius,  was  repaid. 

Needless  to  him  the  tribute  we  bestow, 

The  transitory  breath  of  fame  below : 

More  lasting  rapture  from  his  works  shall  rise, 

While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skies. 

EPITAPH  ON  EDWARD  PURDON.* 

HERE  lies  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 
Who  long  was  a  bookseller's  hack  : 

He  led  such  a  damnable  life  in  this  world, 
I  don't  think  he'll  wish  to  come  back. 

*This  gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  College.  Dublin;  but 
having  wasted  his  patrimony,  he  enlisted  as  a  foot  soldier-  Grow- 
ing tired  of  that  employment,  he  obtained  his  discharge,  and  be- 
came a  scribbler  m  the  newspapers.  He  translated  Voltaire's 
Henriade. 

12* 


138  STANZAS. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  TAKING  OF  QUEBEC. 

AMIDST  the  clamor  of  exulting  joys, 

Which  triumph  forces  from  the  patriot  heart, 

Grief  dares  to  mingle  her  soul-piercing  voice, 

And  quells  the  raptures  which  from  pleasure  start 

O  Wolfe  !  *  to  thee  a  streaming  flood  of  woe 
Sighing  we  pay,  and  think  e'en  conquest  dear  ; 

Quebec  in  vain  shall  teach  our  breast  to  glow, 
Whilst  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart-wrung  tear. 

Alive,  the  foe  thy  dreadful  vigor  fled, 

And  saw  thee  fall  with  joy-pronouncing  eyes : 

Yet  they  shall  know  thou  conquerest,  though  dead ! 
Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes  rise. 

STANZAS  ON  WOMAN. 

WHEN  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy  ? 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  his  bosom,  is  —  to  die. 

*  Goldsmith  claimed  relationship  with  this  gallant  soldier,  whose 
character  he  greatly  admired. 


SONGS.  1 

A  SONNET.* 

WEEPING,  murmuring,  complaining, 

Lost  to  every  gay  delight, 
Myra,  too  sincere  for  feigning, 

Fears  th'  approaching  bridal  night. 

Yet  why  impair  thy  bright  perfection, 
Or  dim  thy  beauty  with  a  tear  ? 

Had  Myra  followed  my  direction, 
She  long  had  wanted  cause  of  fear. 

SONG. 

From  the  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity. 

THE  wretch  condemned  with  life  to  part 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies ; 
And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart 

Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper's  light, 

Adorns  and  cheers  the  way  ; 
And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 

Emits  a  brighter  ray. 

SONG. 

From  the  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity. 

O  MEMORY  !  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain, 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain. 

This  soimet  is  imitated  from  a  French  madrigal  of  St.  Pavieat 


140  PROLOGUE  TO  ZOBEIDE. 

Thou,  like  the  world,  the  oppress'd  oppressing, 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch's  woe ; 

And  he  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 
In  thee  must  ever  find  a  foe. 


SONG. 

Intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  Comedy  of  She  Stoops  to  Con 
guer,  but  omitted,  because  Mrs.  Bulkley,  who  acted  the  part  d 
Miss  Hardcastle,  could  not  sing. 

AH  me !  when  shall  I  marry  me  ? 

Lovers  are  plenty,  but  fail  to  relieve  me ; 
He,  fond  youth,  that  could  carry  me, 

Offers  to  love,  but  means  to  deceive  me. 

But  I  will  rally,  and  combat  the  ruiner : 

Not  a  look,  nor  a  smile,  shall  my  passion  discover. 

She  that  gives  all  to  the  false  one  pursuing  her, 
Makes  but  a  penitant,  and  loses  a  lover. 


PROLOGUE  TO  ZOBEIDE,  A  TRAGEDY; 

WRITTEN    BY    JOSEPH    CRADOCK,  ESQ.,  ACTED    AT  THE 
THEATRE  ROYAL,  COVENT  GARDEN,  1773. 

SPOKEN  BY  MR.  QUICK. 


IN  these  bold  times,  when  Learning's  sons  explore 
The  distant  climates  and  the  savage  shore  ; 
When  wise  astronomers  to  India  steer, 
And  quit  for  Venus  many  a  brighter  here ; 
While  botanists,  all  cold  to  smiles  and  dimpling, 


PEOLOGUE    TO    ZOBEIDE.  141 

Forsake  the  fair,  and  patiently  —  go  simpling : 

Our  bard  into  the  general  spirit  enters, 

And  fits  his  little  frigate  for  adventures. 

With  Scythian  stores,  and  trinkets  deeply  laden, 

He  this  way  steers  his  course,  in  hopes  of  trading ; 

Yet  ere  he  lands  he's  ordered  me  before, 

To  make  an  observation  on  the  shore. 

Where  are  we  driven  ?  our  reckoning  sure  is  lost ! 

This  seems  a  rocky  and  a  dangerous  coast. 

Lord,  what  a  sultry  climate  am  I  under ! 

Yon  ill-foreboding  cloud  seems  big  with  thunder : 

[Upper  Gallery. 
There  mangroves  spread,  and  larger  than  I've  seen 

'em—  [Pit. 

Here  trees  of  stately  size  —  and  billing  turtles  in  'em. 

[Balconies. 

Here  ill-condition'd  oranges  abound  —  [Staff e. 

And  apples,  bitter  apples,  strew  the  ground : 

[  Tasting  them. 

The  inhabitants  are  cannibals,  I  fear : 
I  heard  a  hissing  —  there  are  serpents  here ! 
Oh !  there  the  people  are  —  best  keep  my  distance : 
Our  Captain,  gentle  natives,  craves  assistance ; 
Our  ship's  well  stored  —  in  yonder  creek  we've  laid 

her, 

His  Honor  is  no  mercenary  trader. 
This  is  his  first  adventure :  lend  him  aid, 
And  we  may  chance  to  drive  a  thriving  trade. 
His  goods,  he  hopes,  are  prime,  and  brought  from  far, 
Equally  fit  for  gallantry  and  war. 
What !  no  reply  to  promises  so  ample  ? 
I'd  beet  step  back  —  and  order  up  a  sample. 


142  EPILOGUE   TO    THE   SISTERS. 

EPILOGUE 

TO  THE  COMEDY  OF  THE  SISTERS.* 

WHAT  !  five  long  acts  —  and  all  to  make  us  wiser, 

Our  authoress  sure  has  wanted  an  adviser. 

Had  she  consulted  me,  she  should  have  made 

Her  moral  play  a  speaking  masquerade : 

Warm'd  up  each  bustling  scene,  and  in  her  rage, 

Have  emptied  all  the  green-room  on  the  stage. 

My  life  on't  this  had  kept  her  play  from  sinking, 

Have  pleased  our  eyes,  and  saved  the  pain  of  thinking. 

Well,  since  she  thus  has  shown  her  want  of  skill, 

What  if  /give  a  masquerade?  —  I  will. 

But  how  ?  ay,  there's  the  rub !  [pausing"]  I've  got  my 

cue: 
The  world's  a  masquerade !   the  masquers,  you,  you, 

you.  [To  Boxes,  Pit,  and  Gallery. 

Lud !  what  a  group  the  motley  scene  discloses  ! 
False  wit,  false  wives,  false  virgins,  and  false  spouses ! 
Statesmen  with  bridles  on ;  and,  close  beside  'em, 
Patriots  in  party-color'd  suits  that  ride  'em : 
There  Hebes,  turn'd  of  fifty,  try  once  more 
To  raise  a  flame  in  Cupids  of  threescore ; 
These  in  their  turn,  with  appetites  as  keen, 
Deserting  fifty,  fasten  on  fifteen  : 


*By  Mrs.  Charlotte  Lennox,  author  of  the  Female  Quixote, 
Shakspeare  Illustrated,  etc.  It  was  performed  one  night  only  at 
Covent  Garden,  in  1769.  This  lady  was  praised  by  Dr.  Johnson 
as  the  cleverest  female  writer  of  her  age. 


EPILOGUE    TO    THE    SISTERS.  143 

Miss,  not  yet  full  fifteen,  with  fire  uncommon, 
Flings  down  her  sampler,  and  takes  up  the  woman : 
The  little  urchin  smiles,  and  spreads  lier  lure, 
And  tries  to  kill,  ere  she's  got  power  to  cure. 
Thus  't  is  with  all :  their  chief  and  constant  care 
Is  to  seem  everything  —  but  what  they  are. 
Yon  broad,  bold,  angry  spark,  I  fix  my  eye  on, 
Who  seems  t'  have  robb'd  his  vizor  from  the  lion ; 
Who  frowns,  and  talks,  and  swears,  with  round  parade, 
Looking,  as  who  should  say,  Damme !  who's  afraid  ? 

[Mimicking. 

Strip  but  this  vizor  off,  and,  sure  I  am 
You'll  find  his  lionship  a  very  lamb : 
Yon  politician,  famous  in  debate, 
Perhaps,  to  vulgar  eyes,  bestrides  the  state  ; 
Yet,  when  he  deigns  his  real  shape  t'  assume, 
lie  turns  old  woman,  and  bestrides  a  broom. 
Yon  patriot,  too,  who  presses  on  your  sight, 
And  seems,  to  every  gazer,  all  in  white, 
If  with  a  bribe  his  candor  you  attack, 
He  bows,  turns  round,  and  whip  —  the  man  *s  in  black ; 
Yon  critic,  too  —  but  whither  do  I  run  ? 
If  I  proceed,  our  bard  will  be  undone ! 
Well,  then,  a  truce,  since  she  requests  it  too, 
Do  yoTj  spare  her,  and  I  '11  for  once  spare  you. 


EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN  BY 

MRS.  BULKLEY  AND  MISS  CATLET. 

Bnter  Jfrs.  Bulkley,  who  courtesies  very  low,  as  beginning  to  speak. 
Then  juter  Miss  Catley,  who  stands  full  before  her,  and  courtesies  to 
the  audience. 

Mrs.  IMkley.  HOLD,  Ma'am,  your  pardon.  What's 
your  business  here  ? 

Miss   Cathy.     The  Epilogue. 

Mrs.  B.     The  Epilogue  ? 

Miss  C.     Yes,  the  Epilogue,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  B.  Sure,  you  mistake,  Ma'am.  The  Epi- 
logue? /bring  it. 

Miss  C.  Excuse  me,  Ma'am.  The  author  bid  me 
sing  it. 

Recitative. 

5Te  beaux  and  belles,  that  form  this  splendid  ring, 
Suspend  your  conversation  while  I  sing. 

Mrs.  B.     Why,  sure,  the  girl  's  beside  herself  ?  an 

Epilogue  of  singing  ? 

A  hopful  end,  indeed,  to  such  a  blest  beginning. 
Besides,  a  singer  in  a  comic  set — 
Excuse  me,  Ma'am,  I  know  the  etiquette. 

Miss.  C.     What  if  we  leave  it  to  the  house  ? 

Mrs.  B.     The  house  ?  —  Agreed. 


EPILOGUE.  145 

Miss  C.     Agreed. 

Mrs.  B.     And  she  whose  party 's  largest  shall  pro- 
ceed. 

And  first,  I  hope  you'll  readily  agree 
I  've  all  the  critics  and  the  wits  for  me. 
They,  I  am  sure,  will  answer  my  commands : 
Ye  candid  judging  few,  hold  up  your  hands. 
What !  no  return  ?     I  find  too  late,  I  fear, 
That  modern  judges  seldom  enter  here. 

Miss  C.     I'm  for  a  different  set :  — Old  men,  whose 

trade  is 
Still  to  gallant  and  dangle  with  the  ladies. 

Recitative. 

Who  mump  their  passion,  and  who,  grimly  smiling. 
Still  thus  address  the  fair  with  voice  beguiling : 

AIR. —  Cotillon. 
Turn,  my  fairest,  turn,  if  ever 

Strephon  caught  thy  ravish'd  eye, 
Pity  take  on  your  swain  so  clever, 
Who  without  your  aid  must  die. 

Yes,  I  shall  die,  hu,  hu,  hu,  hu ! 
Yes,  I  must  die,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

Da   Capo. 

Mrs.  B.    Let  all  the  old  pay  homage  to  your  merit ; 
Give  me  the  young,  the  gay,  the  men  of  spirit. 
Ye  travell'd  tribe,  ye  macaroni  train, 
Of  French  friseurs  and  nosegays  justly  vain, 
Who  take  a  trip  to  Paris  once  a-year, 
13 


146  EPILOGUE. 

To  dress,  and  look  like  awkward  Frenchmen  here, — 
Lend  me  your  hands  :  O,  fatal  news  to  tell, 
Their  hands  are  only  lent  to  the  Heinelle. 

Miss  C.    Ay,  take  your  travellers — travellers  indeed 
Give  me  my  bonny  Scot,  that  travels  from  the  Tweed. 
Where  are  the  chiels  ?  Ah,  ah,  I  well  discern 
The  smiling  looks  of  each  bewitching  bairn. 

AIR. — A  bonnie  young  lad  is  my  Jockey. 
I'll  sing  to  amuse  you  by  night  and  by  day, 
And  be  unco  merry  when  you  are  but  gay  ; 
When  you  with  your  bagpipes  are  ready  to  play, 
My  voice  shall  be  ready  to  carol  away 

With  Sandy,  and  Sawney,  and  Jockey, 
With  Sawnie,  and  Jarvie,  and  Jockey. 

Mrs.  B.     Ye  gamesters,  who,  so  eager  in  pursuit, 
Make  but  of  all  your  fortune  one  va  toute: 
Ye  jockey  tribe,  whose  stock  of  words  are  few, 
4 1  hold  the  odds  —  Done,  done,  with  you,  with  you.' 
Ye  barristers,  so  fluent  with  grimace, 
4  My  Lord,  your  Lordship  misconceives  the  case ; ' 
Doctors,  who  answer  every  misfortuner, 
4 1  wish  I'd  been  call'd  in  a  little  sooner : ' 
Assist  my  cause  with  hands  and  voices  hearty, 
Come,  end  the  contest  here,  and  aid  my  party. 

AIR. — BaUinamony. 

Miss  C.    Ye  brave  Irish  lads,  hark  away  to  the  crack 
Assist  me,  I  pray,  in  this  woeful  attack ; 
For — sure,  I  don't  wrong  you —  you  seldom  are  slack. 


EPILOGUE.  147 

When  the  ladies  are  calling,  to  blush  and  hang  back. 
For  you  are  always  so  polite  and  attentive, 
Still  to  amuse  us  inventive, 
And  death  is  your  only  preventive ; 
Your  hands  and  voices  for  me. 

Mrs.  B.     Well,  Madam,  what  if,  after  all  this  spar- 
ring,  we  both  agree,  like  friends,  to  end  our  jarring? 
Miss  C.     And  that  our  friendship  may  remain  un- 

broken, 

What  if  we  leave  the  Epilogue  unspoken  ? 
Mrs.  B.     Agreed. 
Miss  G.     Agreed. 

Mrs.  B.     And  now  with  late  repentance, 
Un-epilogued  the  Poet  waits  his  sentence. 
Condemn  the  stubborn  fool,  who  can't  submit 
To  thrive  by  flattery,  though  he  starves  by  wit. 

Exeunt. 
AN  EPILOGUE. 

INTENDED  FOR  MRS.   BULKLEY. 

THERE  is  a  place  —  so  Ariosto  sings  — 

A  treasury  for  lost  and  missing  things, 

Lost  human  wits  have  places  there  assign'd  them, 

And  they  who  lose  their  senses,  there  may  find  them. 

But  where  's  this  place,  this  storehouse  of  the  age  ? 

The  Moon,  says  he ;  but  I  affirm,  the  Stage  — 

At  least,  in  many  things  I  think  I  see, 

His  lunar  and  our  mimic  world  agree : 

Both  shine  at  night,  for,  but  at  Foote's  alone. 

We  scarce  exhibit  till  the  sun  goes  down  ; 


148  EPILOGUE. 

Both  prone  to  change,  no  settled  limits  fix, 
And  sure  the  folks  of  both  are  lunatics. 
But  in  this  parallel  my  best  pretence  is, 
That  mortals  visit  both  to  find  their  senses ; 
To  this  strange  spot,  Rakes,  Macaronies,  Cits, 
Come  thronging  to  collect  their  scatter'd  wits. 
The  gay  coquette,  who  ogles  all  the  day, 
Comes  here  at  night,  and  goes  a  prude  away. 
Hither  th'  affected  city  dame  advancing, 
Who  sighs  for  Operas,  and  doats  on  dancing, 
Taught  by  our  art,  her  ridicule  to  pause  on, 
Quits  the  Ballet,  and  calls  for  Nancy  Dawson. 
The  Gamester,  too,  whose  wit's  all  high  or  low, 
Oft  risks  his  fortune  on  one  desperate  throw, 
Comes  here  to  saunter,  having  made  his  bets, 
Finds  his  lost  senses  out,  and  pays  his  debts. 
The  Mohawk,  too,  with  angry  phrases  stored  — 
As,  l  Damme,  Sir ! '  and  '  Sir,  I  wear  a  sword ! ' 
Here  lesson'd  for  a  while,  and  hence  retreating, 
Goes  out,  affronts  his  man,  and  takes  u  beating. 
Here  comes  the  sons  of  scandal  and  of  news, 
But  find  no  sense  —  for  they  have  none  to  lose. 
Of  all  the  tribe  here  wanting  an  adviser, 
Our  Author's  the  least  likely  to  grow  wiser ; 
Has  he  not  seen  how  you  your  favor  place 
On  sentimental  queens,  and  lords  in  lace  ? 
Without  a  star,  a  coronet,  or  garter, 
How  can  the  piece  expect  or  hope  for  quarter  ? 
No  high-life  scenes,  no  sentiment :  the  creature 
Still  stoops  among  the  low  to  copy  Nature. 
Yes,  he  's  far  gone  :  and  yet  some  pity  fix, 
The  English  laws  forbid  to  punish  lunatics. 


EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN  BY  MR.   LEE  LEWES,   IN  THE  CHARACTER  OP 
HARLEQUIN,  AT  HIS  BENEFIT. 

HOLD  I  Prompter,  hold !  a  word  before  your  nonsense, 
I'd  speak  a  word  or  two,  to  ease  my  conscience. 
My  pride  forbids  it  ever  should  be  said 
My  heels  eclipse  the  honors  of  my  head ; 
That  I  found  humor,  in  a  piebald  vest, 
Or  ever  thought  that  jumping  was  a  jest. 

[  Takes  off"  his  mask. 

Whence,  and  what  art  thou,  visionary  birth  ? 
Nature  disowns,  and  reason  scorns  thy  mirth : 
In  thy  black  aspect  every  passion  sleeps, 
The  joy  that  dimples,  and  the  wo  that  weeps. 
How  hast  thou  filPd  the  scene  with  all  thy  brood 
Of  fools  pursuing  and  of  fools  pursued ! 
Whose  ins  and  outs  no  ray  of  sense  discloses, 
Whose  only  plot  it  is  to  break  our  noses ; 
Whilst  from  below  the  trap-door  demons  rise, 
And  from  above  the  dangling  deities : 
And  shall  I  mix  in  this  unhallow'd  crew  ? 
May  rosin'd  lightning  blast  me  if  I  do ! 
No  —  I  will  act  —  I'll  vindicate  the  stage: 
Shakspeare  himself  shall  feel  my  tragic  rage. 
Off !  off !  vile  trappings  !  a  new  passion  reigns ! 
The  madd'ning  monarch  revels  in  my  veins. 
Oh !  for  a  Richard's  voice  to  catch  the  theme, — 
13* 


150  EPILOGUE. 

1  Give  me  another  horse  !  bind  up  my  wounds  ! ' — soft, 

'twas  but  a  dream. 

Ay,  'twas  but  a  dream,  for  now  there's  no  retreating, 
If  I  cease  Harlequin,  I  cease  from  eating. 
'Twas  thus  that  ^Esop's  stag,  a  creature  blameless, 
Yet  something  vain,  like  one  that  shall  be  nameless, 
Once  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain  stood 
And  cavill'd  at  his  image  in  the  flood : 
kThe  deuce  confound,'  he  cries,  'these  drumstick  shanks 
They  never  have  my  gratitude  nor  thanks ; 
They're  perfectly  disgraceful !  strike  me  dead ! 
But  for  a  head,  yes,  yes,  I  have  a  head : 
How  piercing  is  that  eye !  how  sleek  that  brow  ! 
My  horns  ! — I'm  told  that  horns  are  the  fashion  now.' 

Whilst  thus  he  spoke,  astonish'd  to  his  view, 
Near,  and  more  near,  the  hounds  and  huntsmen  drew; 
'  Hoicks  !  hark  forward  ! '  came  thund'ring  from  behind 
He  bounds  aloft,  outstrips  the  fleeting  wind ; 
He  quits  the  woods,  and  tries  the  beaten  ways ; 
He  starts,  he  pants,  he  takes  the  circling  maze : 
At  length,  his  silly  head,  so  prized  before, 
Is  taught  his  former  folly  to  deplore ; 
Whilst  his  strong  limbs  conspire  to  set  him  free. 
And  at  one  bound  he  saves  himself  —  like  me. 

[  Taking  a  jump  through  the  stage  dcor. 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS.* 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HER  LATE  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  THE 

PRINCESS  DOWAGER  OF  WALES. 

SPOKKN  AND  SUNG  IN  THE  GREAT  ROOM    IN  SOHO-SQUARE, 

Thursday,  the  20th  day  of  February,  1772. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

THE  following  may  more  properly  be  termed  a  com- 
pilation than  a  poem.  It  was  prepared  for  the  compo- 
ser in  little  more  than  two  days :  and  may  therefore 
rather  be  considered  as  an  industrious  effort  of  grati- 
tude than  of  genius. 

In  justice  to  the  composer,  it  may  likewise  be  right 
to  inform  the  public,  that  the  music  was  adapted  in  a 
period  of  time  equally  short. 

SPEAKERS. — Mr.  Lee  and  Mrs.  Bellamy. 
SINGERS. — Mr.  Champnes,  Mr.  Dine,  and  Miss  Jameson. 

THE  MUSIC  PREPARED  AND  ADAPTED  BY  SIGNIOR  VENTO. 

*  This  poem  was  first  printed  in  Chalmer's  edition  of  the  English 
Poets,  from  a  copy  given  by  Goldsmith  to  his  friend,  Joseph  Cra- 
dock,  Esq.,  author  of  the  tragedy  of  Zobeide. 


152  THRENODIA    AUGUSTALIS. 

THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 

OVERTURE— A  SOLEMN  DIRGE. 
AIR  —  TRIO. 

ARISE,  ye  sons  of  worth,  arise, 
And  waken  every  note  of  woe ! 

When  truth  and  virtue  reach  the  skies, 
Tis  ours  to  weep  the  want  below. 

CHORUS. 

When  truth  and  virtue,  etc. 

MAN  SPEAKER. 

The  praise  attending  pomp  and  power, 

The  incense  given  to  kings, 
Are  but  the  trappings  of  an  hour, 

Mere  transitory  things. 
The  base  bestow  them ;  but  the  good  agree 
To  spurn  the  venal  gifts  as  flattery. 
But  when  to  pomp  and  power  are  join'd 
An  equal  dignity  of  the  mind  ; 

When  titles  are  the  smallest  claim ; 
When  wealth  and  rank,  and  noble  blood, 
But  aid  the  power  of  doing  good : 

Then  all  their  trophies  last  —  and  flattery  turns  to 

fame. 

Blest  spirit,  thou,  whose  fame,  just  born  to  bloom, 
Shall  spread  and  flourish  from  the  tomb, 

How  hast  thou  left  mankind  for  Heaven !  ' 
Even  now  reproach  and  faction  mourn, 
And,  wondering  how  their  rage  was  born, 


THRENODIA    AUGUSTALI8. 

Request  to  be  forgiven ! 
Alas !  they  never  had  thy  hate ; 

Unmoved,  in  conscious  rectitude, 

Thy  towering  mind  self-centred  stood, 
Nor  wanted  man's  opinion  to  be  great. 

In  vain,  to  charm  the  ravish'd  sight, 
A  thousand  gifts  would  fortune  send  ; 

In  vain,  to  drive  thee  from  the  right, 
A  thousand  sorrows  urged  thy  end : 
Like  some  well-fashion'd  arch  thy  patience  stood, 
And  purchased  strength  from  its  increased  load. 
Pain  met  thee  like  a  friend  to  set  thee  free, 
Affliction  still  is  virtue's  opportunity  ! 
Virtue,  on  herself  relying, 

Every  passion  hushed  to  rest, 
Loses  every  pain  of  dying 

In  the  hopes  of  being  blest. 
Every  added  pang  she  suffers 

Some  increasing  good  bestows, 
And  every  shock  that  malice  offers 

Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 


SONG.     BY  A  MAN— AFFETUO8O. 


Virtue,  on  herself  relying,  etc. 

to 
Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 


WOMAN  SPEAKER. 


Yet  ah !  what  terrors  frown'd  upon  her  fate, 

Death,  with  its  formidable  band, 
Fever,  and  pain,  and  pale  consumptive  care, 


154  THRENODIA    ADGDSTAH8. 

Determined  took  their  stand. 
Nor  did  the  cruel  ravagers  design 

To  finish  all  their  efforts  at  a  blow ; 

But,  mischievously  slow, 
They  robb'd  the  relic  and  defaced  the  shrine. 

With  unavailing  grief, 

Despairing  of  relief, 
Her  weeping  children  round 

Beheld  each  hour 

Death's  growing  pow'r, 
And  trembled  as  he  frown'd. 
As  helpless  friends  who  view  from  shore 
The  laboring  ship,  and  hear  the  tempest  roar, 

While  winds  and  waves  their  wishes  cross, — 
They  stood,  while  hope  and  comfort  fail, 
Not  to  assist,  but  to  bewail 

The  inevitable  loss. 
Relentless  tyrant,  at  thy  call 
How  do  the  good,  the  virtuous  fall ! 
Truth,  beauty,  worth,  and  all  that  most  engage, 
But  wake  thy  vengeance  and  provoke  thy  rage. 

SONG.     BY  A  MAN.— BASSO,  STOCCATO,  SPIRITUOSOo 

When  vice  my  dart  and  scythe  supply, 
How  great  a  King  of  Terrors  I ! 
If  folly,  fraud,  your  hearts  engage, 
Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage ! 

Fall,  round  me  fall,  ye  little  things, 
Ye  statesmen,  warriors,  poets,  kings, 
If  virtue  fail  her  counsel  sage, 
Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage ! 


fHRENODIA    AUGUSTALIS.  155 


MAN  SPEAKER. 


Yet  let  that  wisdom,  'urged  by  her  example, 
Teach  us  to  estimate  what  all  must  suffer : 
Let  us  prize  death  as  the  best  gift  of  nature, 
As  a  safe  inn  where  weary  travellers, 
When  they  have  journey'd  through  a  world  of  cares, 
May  put  off  life,  and  be  at  rest  forever. 
Groans,  weeping  friends,  indeed,  and  gloomy  sables, 
May  oft  distract  us  with  their  sad  solemnity, 
The  preparation  is  the  executioner. 
Death,  when  unmask'd,  shows  me  a  friendly  face, 
And  is  a  terror  only  at  a  distance : 
Nor  as  the  line  of  life  conducts  me  on 
To  Death's  great  court,  the  prospect  seems  more  fair. 
'Tis  Nature's  kind  retreat,  that's  always  open 
To  take  us  in  when  we  have  drained  the  cup 
Of  life,  or  worn  our  days  to  wretchedness. 
Tn  that  secure,  serene  retreat, 
Where  all  the  humble,  all  the  great, 

Promiscuously  recline ; 
Where  wildly  huddled  to  the  eye, 
The  beggar's  pouch,  and  prince's  purple  lie: 

May  every  bliss  be  thine ! 
And,  ah !  blest  spirit,  wheresoe'er  thy  flight, 
Through  rolling  worlds,  or  fields  of  liquid  light, 
May  cherubs  welcome  their  expected  guest ! 
May  saints  with  songs  receive  thee  to  their  rest ! 
May  peace,  that  claim'd  while  here,  thy  warmest  lore, 
May  blissful,  endless  peace  be  thine  above ! 


156  THRENODIA    AUGUSTALIS. 


BONO.      BY  A  WOMAN  — AMOROSO. 

Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  below, 
Comforter  of  every  woe, 
Heavenly  born,  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  favorites  of  the  sky ! 
Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  appear ! 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

WOMAN  SPEAKER. 

Our  vows  are  heard !  Long,  long  to  mortal  eyes, 
Her  soul  was  fitting  to  its  kindred  skies : 
Celestial  like  her  bounty  fell, 
Where  modest  Want  and  patient  Sorrow  dwell  i 
Want  pass'd  for  Merit  at  her  door, 

Unseen  the  modest  were  supplied, 
Her  constant  pity  fed  the  poor, — 

Then  only  poor,  indeed,  the  day  she  died. 
And,  oh !  for  this,  while  sculpture  decks  thy  shrine, 

And  art  exhausts  profusion  round, 
The  tribute  of  a  tear  be  mine, 

A  simple  song,  a  sigh  profound. 
There  faith  shall  come  —  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  tomb  that  wraps  thy  clay ! 
And  calm  Religion  shall  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 
Truth,  Fortitude,  and  Friendship,  shall  agree 
To  blend  their  virtues  while  they  think  of  thee 


THRENODIA    AUGUSTALIS.  157 


AIR —-CHORUS  POMFOSO. 

Let  us  —  let  all  the  world  agree, 
To  profit  by  resembling  thee. 

PART  II. 

OVERTURE  —  PASTORALE. 
MAN  SPEAKER. 

FAST  by  that  shore  where  Thames'  translucent  stream, 

Reflects  new  glories  on  his  breast, 
Where,  splendid  as  the  youthful  poet's  dream, 

He  forms  a  scen'e  beyond  Elysium  blest ; 
Where  sculptured  elegance  and  native  grace 
Unite  to  stamp  the  beauties  of  the  place ; 
While,  sweetly  blending,  still  are  seen 
The  wavy  lawn,  the  sloping  green ; 

While  novelty,  with  cautious  cunning, 

Through  every  maze  of  fancy  running, 
From  China  borrows  aid  to  deck  the  scene : 
There,  sorrowing  by  the  river's  glassy  bed, 

Forlorn,  a  rural  band  complain'd, 
All  whom  AUGUSTA'S  bounty  fed, 

All  whom  her  clemency  sustain'd  ; 
The  good  old  sire,  unconscious  of  decay, 
The  modest  matron,  clad  in  home-spun  gray, 
The  military  boy,  the  orphan'd  maid, 
The  shatter'd  veteran  now  first  dismay'd, — 
These  sadly  join  beside  the  murmuring  deep, 

And,  as  they  view  the  towers  of  Kew, 
Call  on  their  mistress  —  now  no  more  —  and  weep. 

14 


158  THRENODIA    AUGUSTALIS. 

CHOHU8.— AFFETUOSO,  LARGO. 

Ye  shady  walks,  ye  waving  greens, 

Ye  nodding  towers,  ye  fairy  scenes, 

Let  all  your  echoes  now  deplore, 

That  she  who  form'd  your  beauties  is  no  more. 

MAN  SPEAKER. 

First  of  the  train  the  patient  rustic  came, 

Whose  callous  hand  had  form'd  the  scene, 
Bending  at  once  with  sorrow  and  with  age, 

With  many  a  tear,  and  many  a  sigh  between : 
'And  where,'  he  cried,  *  shall  now  my  babes  have  bread, 

Or  how  shall  age  support  its  feeble  fire  ? 
No  lord  will  take  me  now,  my  vigor  fled, 

Nor  can  my  strength  perform  what  they  require, 
Each  grudging  master  keeps  the  laborer  bare, 
A  sleek  and  idle  race  is  all  their  care. 
My  noble  mistress  thought  not  so : 

Her  bounty,  like  the  morning  dew, 
Unseen,  though  constant,  used  to  flow, 

And  as  my  strength  decay'd,  her  bounty  grew.' 


WOMAN   SPEAKEK. 


In  decent  dress,  and  coarsely  clean, 

The  pious  matron  next  was  seen, 

Clasp'd  in  her  hand  a  godly  book  was  borne, 

By  use  and  daily  meditation  worn ; 

That  decent  dress,  this  holy  guide, 

Augusta's  cares  had  well  supplied. 

'And  ah ! '  she  cries,  all  wo-begone, 


THRENODIA    AUGUSTALIS.  159 

'  What  now  remains  for  me  ? 
Oh !  where  shall  weeping  want  repair 

To  ask  for  charity  ? 
Too  late  in  life  for  me  to  ask, 

And  shame  prevents  the  deed, 
And  tardy,  tardy  are  the  times 

To  succor,  should  I  need. 
But  all  my  wants,  before  I  spoke, 

Were  to  my  mistress  known ; 
She  still  relieved,  nor  sought  my  praise, 

Contented  with  her  own. 
But  every  day  her  name  I'll  bless, 

My  morning  prayer,  my  evening  song, 
I'll  praise  her  while  my  life  shall  last, 

A  life  that  cannot  last  me  long.' 

SONG.— BY  A  WOMAN. 

Each  day,  each  hour,  her  name  I'll  bless, 

My  morning  and  my  evening  song, 
And  when  in  death  my  vows  shall  cease, 

My  children  shall  the  note  prolong. 

MAN   SPEAKER. 

The  hardy  veteran  after  struck  the  sight, 
Scarr'd,  mangled,  maim'd  in  every  part, 

Lopp'd  of  his  limbs  in  many  a  gallant  fight, 
In  nought  entire  —  except  his  heart : 

Mute  for  a  while,  and  sullenly  distrest, 

At  last  th'  impetuous  sorrow  fired  his  breast :  — • 
Wild  is  the  whirlwind  rolling 
O'er  Afric's  sandy  plain, 


160  THRENODIA    AUGUSTALIS. 

And  wide  the  tempest  howling 

Along  the  billow'd  main : 
But  every  danger  felt  before, 
The  raging  deep,  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
Less  dreadful  struck  me  with  dismay 
Than  what  I  feel  this  fatal  day. 
Oh,  let  me  fly  a  land  that  spurns  the  brave, 
Oswego's  dreary  shores  shall  be  my  grave ; 
I'll  seek  that  less  inhospitable  coast, 
And  lay  my  body  where  my  limbs  were  lost. 

SONG.     BY  A   MAN.— BASSO  SPIRITUO8O. 

Old  Edward's  sons,  unknown  to  yield, 
Shall  crowd  from  Cressy's  laurell'd  field, 

To  do  thy  memory  right : 
For  thine  and  Britain's  wrongs  they  feel, 
Again  they  snatch  the  gleamy  steel, 

And  wish  th'  avenging  fight. 

WOMAN  SPEAKER. 

In  innocence  and  youth  complaining, 

Next  appear'd  a  lovely  maid ; 
Affliction,  o'er  each  feature  reigning, 

Kindly  came  in  beauty's  aid : 
Every  grace  that  grief  dispenses, 

Every  glance  that  warms  the  soul, 
In  sweet  succession  charms  the  senses, 

While  Pity  harmonized  the  whole. 
*  The  garland  of  beauty,'  'tis  thus  she  would  say, 

4  No  more  shall  my  crook  or  my  temples  adorn ; 
I'll  not  wear  a  garland  — Augusta  's  away  — 


THRENODIA    AUGUSTALIS.  161 

I'll  not  wear  a  garland  until  she  return. 
But,  alas !  that  return  I  never  shall  see  : 

The  echoes  of  Thames  shall  my  sorrows  proclaim. 
There  promised  a  lover  to  come  —  but,  ah  me ! 

'Twas  death — 'twas  the  death  of  my  mistress  that 

came. 
But  ever,  for  ever,  her  image  shall  last, 

I'll  strip  all  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom : 
On  her  grave  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast 

And  the  new-blossom'd  thorn  shall  whiten  her  tomb. 

SONG.— BY  A  WOMAN.— PASTORALE. 

With  garlands  of  beauty  the  Queen  of  the  May 

No  more  will  her  crook  or  her  temples  adorn  ; 
For  who'd  wear  a  garland  when  she  is  away, 

When  she  is  removed,  and  shall  never  return  ? 
On  the  grave  of  Augusta  these  garlands  be  placed, 

We'll  rifle  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom, 
And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 

And  the  new  blossom'd  thorn  shall  whiten  her  tomb. 

CHORUS. — ALTRO  MODO. 

On  the  grave  of  Augusta  this  garland  be  placed, 
We'll  rifle  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom, 

A.nd  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 
And  the  tears  of  her  country  shall  water  her  tomb, 


14* 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO.* 

THE  PERSONS. 

First  Jewish  Prophet.  First  Chaldean  Priest. 

Second  Jewish  Prophet.         Second  Chaldean  Priest. 
Israelitish  Woman.  Chaldean  Woman. 

Chorus  of  Youths  and  Virgins. 
SCENE.—  The  Banks  of  the  River  Euphrates  near  Babylon. 

ACT  THE  FIRST. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

YE  captive  tribes  that  hourly  work  and  weep 
Where  flows  Euphrates  murmuring  to  the  deep 
Suspend  your  woes  a  while,  the  task  suspend, 
And  turn  to  God,  your  father  and  your  friend  •. 
Insulted,  chain'd,  and  all  the  world  our  foe, 
Our  God  alone  is  all  we  boast  below. 

Air. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

Our  God  is  all  we  boast  below, 
To  him  we  turn  our  eyes ; 

*This  was  first  printed  from  the  original,  in  Dr.  Goldsmith's 
own  hand-writing,  in  the  8vo.  edition  of  hia  Miscellaneous  JFbr&t, 
published  iu  1820. 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO.  163 

And  every  added  weight  of  wo 
Shall  make  our  homage  rise. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

And  though  no  temple  richly  dress'd, 

Nor  sacrifice  is  here, 
We'll  make  his  temple  in  our  breast, 

And  offer  up  a  tear. 

\_Thefirst  stanza  repeated  by  the  CHORUS, 

ISRAELITI8H  WOMAN. 

That  strain  once  more !  it  bids  remembrance  rise, 
And  brings  my  long-lost  country  to  mine  eyes  : 
Ye  fields  of  Sharon,  dress'd  in  flowery  pride, 
Ye  plains  where  Kedron  rolls  its  glassy  tide, 
Ye  hills  of  Lebanon,  with  cedars  crown'd, 
Ye  Gilead  groves,  that  fling  perfumes  around, — 
How  sweet  those  groves  !  that  plain  how  wondrous  fair 
How  doubly  sweet  when  Heaven  was  with  us  there ! 

Air. 

O  Memory  !  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain  ; 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain. 

Hence,  intruder  most  distressing ! 

Seek  the  happy  and  the  free : 
The  wretch  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 

Ever  wants  a  friend  in  thee. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Yet  why  complain  ?    What  though  by  bonds  confined ! 


164  THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 

Should  bonds  repress  the  vigor  of  the  mind  ? 
Have  we  not  cause  for  triumph,  when  we  see 
Ourselves  alone  from  idol  worship  free  ? 
Are  not,  this  very  morn,  those  feasts  begun 
Where  prostrate  error  hails  the  rising  sun  ? 
Do  not  our  tyrant  lords  this  day  ordain 
For  superstitious  rites  and  mirth  profane  ? 
And  should  we  mourn  ?  Should  coward  virtue  fly, 
When  vaunting  folly  lifts  her  head  on  high  ? 
No  !  rather  let  us  triumph  still  the  more, 
And  as  our  fortune  sinks,  our  spirits  soar. 

Air. 

The  triumphs  that  on  vice  attend 
Shall  ever  in  confusion  end ; 
The  good  man  suffers  but  to  gain, 
And  every  virtue  springs  from  pain : 
As  aromatic  plants  bestow 
No  spicy  fragrance  while  they  grow ; 
But  crush'd,  or  trodden  to  the  ground, 
Diffuse  their  balmy  sweets  around. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

But  hush,  my  sons,  our  tyrant  lords  are  near, 

The  sounds  of  barbarous  pleasure  strike  mine  ear ; 

Triumphant  music  floats  along  the  vale, 

Near,  nearer  still,  it  gathers  on  the  gale : 

The  growing  sound  their  swift  approach  declares  — 

Desist,  my  sons,  nor  mix  the  strain  with  theirs. 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO.  165 

Enter  CHALDEAN  PRIESTS  attended. 
Air. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

Come  on,  my  companions,  the  triumph  display, 

Let  rapture  the  minutes  employ ; 
The  sun  calls  us  out  on  this  festival  day, 

And  our  monarch  partakes  in  the  joy. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Like  the  sun,  our  great  monarch  all  rapture  supplies. 

Both  similar  blessings  bestow  : 
The  sun  with  his  splendor  illumines  the  skies, 

And  our  monarch  enlivens  below. 

Air. 

CHALDEAN  WOMAN. 

Haste,  ye  sprightly  sons  of  pleasure, 
Love  presents  the  fairest  treasure, 
Leave  all  other  joys  for  me. 

A  CHALDEAN  ATTENDANT. 

Or  rather,  love's  delights  despising, 
Haste  to  raptures  ever  rising, 

Wine  shall  bless  the  brave  and  free. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

Wine  and  beauty  thus  inviting, 
Each  to  different  joys  exciting, 
Whither  shall  my  choice  incline. 


166  THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 


SECOND   PRIEST. 


I'll  waste  no  longer  thought  in  choosing, 
But,  neither  this  nor  that  refusing, 

I'll  make  them  both  together  mine. 


FIRST  PRIEST. 


But  whence,  when  joy  should  brighten  o'er  the  bud, 
This  sullen  gloom  in  Judah's  captive  band  ? 
Ye  sons  of  Judah,  why  the  lute  unstrung  ? 
Or  why  those  harps  on  yonder  willows  hung? 
Come,  take  the  lyre,  and  pour  the  strain  along; 
The  day  demands  it :  sing  us  Sion's  song, 
Dismiss  your  griefs,  and  join  our  warbling  choir, 
For  who  like  you  can  wake  the  sleeping  lyre  V 

Air. 

Every  moment  as  it  flows, 
Some  peculiar  pleasure  owes. 

Come,  then,  providently  wise, 
Seize  the  debtor  e'er  it  flies. 


SECOND  PRIEST. 


Think  not  to-morrow  can  repay 
The  debt  of  pleasure  lost  to-da} 

Alas !  to-morrow's  richest  store 
Can  but  pay  its  proper  score. 


SECOND  PROPHET. 


Chain'd  as  we  are,  the  scorn  of  all  mankind, 
To  want,  to  toil,  and  every  ill  consign'd, 
Is  this  a  time  to  bid  us  raise  the  strain, 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO.  167 

Or  mix  in  rites  that  Heaven  regards  with  pain  ? 
No,  never !  may  this  hand  forget  each  art 
That  wakes  to  finest  joys  the  human  heart, 
Ere  I  forget  the  land  that  gave  me  birth, 
Or  join  to  sounds  profane  its  sacred  mirth ! 


SECOND   PRIEST. 


Rebellious  slaves  !  if  soft  persuasions  fail, 
More  formidable  terrors  shall  prevail. 


FIRST  PROPHET. 


Why,  let  them  come,  one  good  remains  to  cheer  — 
We  fear  the  Lord,  and  scorn  all  other  fear. 

[Exeunt  CHALDEANS. 


CROBUS  OF  ISRAELITES. 


Can  chains  or  tortures  bend  the  mind 

On  God's  supporting  breast  reclined  ? 

Stand  fast,  and  let  our  tyrant  see 

That  fortitude  is  victory.  [Exeunt, 


ACT  THE  SECOND. 

ISRAELITES  and  CHALDEANS  as  before. 
Air. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

O  peace  of  mind,  angelic  guest, 
Thou  soft  companion  of  the  breast, 
Dispense  thy  balmy  store ! 


168  THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 

Wing  all  our  thoughts  to  reach  the  skies, 
Till  earth,  receding  from  our  eyes, 
Shall  vanish  as  we  soar ! 

FIBST  PRIEST. 

No  more.     Too  long  has  justice  been  delay  *d, 
The  king's  commands  must  fully  be  obey'd ; 
Compliance  with  his  will  your  peace  secures, 
Praise  but  our  gods,  and  every  good  is  yours. 
But  if,  rebellious  to  his  high  command, 
You  spurn  the  favors  ofFer'd  from  his  hand, 
Think,  timely  think,  what  terrors  are  behind ; 
Reflect,  nor  tempt  to  rage  the  royal  mind. 

Air. 

Fierce  is  the  tempest  howling 

Along  the  furrow'd  main, 
And  fierce  the  whirlwind  rolling 

O'er  Afric's  sandy  plain. 

But  storms  that  fly 

To  rend  the  sky, 
Every  ill  presaging, 

Less  dreadful  show 

To  worlds  below 
Than  angry  monarchs  raging. 

ISKAELITISH  WOMEN. 

Ah  me !  what  angry  terrors  round  us  grow ! 
How  shrinks  my  soul  to  meet  the  threaten'd  blow* 
Ye  prophets,  skill'd  in  Heaven's  eternal  truth, 


THE    CAPTIVITY  I    AN    ORATORIO.  169 

Forgive  my  sex's  fears,  forgive  my  youth ! 
Ah!  let  us  one,  one  little  hour  obey; 
To-morrow's  tears  may  wash  the  stain  away. 

Air. 

Fatigued  with  life,  yet  loth  to  part, 

On  hope  the  wretch  relies; 
And  every  blow  that  sinks  the  heart 

Bids  the  deluder  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  taper's  gleamy  light, 

Adorns  the  wretch's  way ; 
And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 

Emits  a  brighter  ray. 


SECOND  PRIEST. 


Why  this  delay  ?     At  length  for  joy  prepare : 
I  read  your  looks,  and  see  compliance  there. 
Come  on,  and  bid  the  warbling  rapture  rise; 
Our  monarch's  fame  the  noblest  theme  supplies. 
Begin,  ye  captive  bands,  and  strike  the  lyre ; 
The  time,  the  theme,  the  place,  and  all  conspire 

Air. 


CHALDEAN  WOMAN. 


See  the  ruddy  morning  smiling, 
Hear  the  grove  to  bliss  beguiling ; 
Zephyrs  through  the  woodland  playing, 
Streams  along  the  valley  straying. 


FIRST  PRIEST. 


While  these  a  constant  revel  keep, 
15 


170  THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 

Shall  reason  only  teach  to  weep  ? 
Hence,  intruder !  we'll  pursue 
Nature,  a  better  guide  than  you. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

But  hold !  see,  foremost  of  the  captive  choir, 
The  master  prophet  grasps  his  full-toned  lyre. 
Mark  where  he  sits,  with  executing  art, 
Feels  for  each  tone,  and  speeds  it  to  the  heart. 
See,  how  prophetic  rapture  fills  his  form, 
Awful  as  clouds  that  nurse  the  growing  storm ! 
And  now  his  voice,  accordant  to  the  string, 
Prepares  our  monarch's  victories  to  sing. 

Air. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

From  north,  from  south,  from  east,  from  west, 

Conspiring  nations  come : 
Tremble,  thou  vice-polluted  breast! 

Blasphemers,  all  be  dumb. 

The  tempest  gathers  all  around, 

On  Babylon  it  lies  ; 
Down  with  her  !  down,  down  to  the  ground 

She  sinks,  she  groans,  she  dies. 

SECOND   PROPHET. 

Down  with  her,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust, 

Before  yon  setting  sun  ; 
Serve  her  as  she  hath  served  the  just  I 

'Tis  fix'd  — it  shall  be  done. 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO.  171 

FIRST    PRIEST. 

No  more  !  when  slaves  thus  insolent  presume, 

The  king  himself  shall  judge  and  fix  their  doom. 

Unthinking  wretches !  have  not  you  and  all 

Beheld  our  power  in  Zedekiah's  fall  ? 

To  yonder  gloomy  dungeon  turn  your  eyes  : 

See  where  dethroned  your  captive  monarch  lies, 

Deprived  of  sight,  and  rankling  in  his  chain ; 

See  where  he  mourns  his  friends  and  children  slain. 

Yet  know,  ye  slaves,  that  still  remain  behind 

More  ponderous  chains,  and  dungeons  more  confined. 


CHORUS  OF  ALL. 


Arise,  all  potent  ruler,  rise, 

And  vindicate  the  people's  cause, 

Till  every  tongue  in  every  land 
Shall  offer  up  unfeigned  applause. 

[Eaceunt 


ACT  THE  THIRD. 


FIRST  PRIEST. 


Yes,  my  companions,  Heaven's  decrees  are  pass'd, 

And  our  fix'd  empire  shall  for  ever  last : 

In  vain  the  madd'ning  prophet  threatens  woe, 

In  vain  rebellion  aims  her  secret  blow ; 

Still  shall  our  name  and  growing  power  be  spread, 

And  still  our  justice  crush  the  traitor's  head. 


172          THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 

Air. 

Coeval  with  man 
Our  empire  began, 
And  never  shall  full 
Till  ruin  shakes  all, 
When  ruin  shakes  all, 
Then  shall  Babylon  fall. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

'Tis  thus  the  proud  triumphant  rear  the  head,— 
A  little  while  and  all  their  power  is  fled. 
But,  ha !  what  means  yon  sadly  plaintive  train, 
That  onward  slowly  bends  along  the  plain  ? 
And  now,  behold,  to  yonder  bank  they  bear 
A  pallid  corse,  and  rest  the  body  there. 
Alas !  too  well  mine  eyes  indignant  trace 
The  last  remains  of  Judah's  royal  race : 
Fall'n  is  our  king,  and  all  our  fears  are  o'er, 
Unhappy  Zedekiah  is  no  more. 

Air. 

Ye  wretches,  who,  by  fortune's  hate, 

In  want  and  sorrow  groan, 
Come,  ponder  his  severer  fate, 

And  learn  to  bless  your  own. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

Ye  vain,  whom  youth  and  pleasure  guide. 

Awhile  the  bliss  suspend  ; 
Like  yours,  his  life  began  in  pride, 

Like  his,  your  lives  shall  end. 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO.  173 


SECOND   PROPHET. 


Behold  his  wretched  corse  with  sorrow  worn, 
His  squalid  limbs  by  ponderous  fetters  torn  ; 
Those  eyeless  orbs  that  shook  with  ghastly  glare, 
Those  unbecoming  rags,  that  matted  hair ! 
And  shall  not  Heaven  for  this  avenge  the  foe, 
Grasp  the  red  bolt,  and  lay  the  guilty  low  ? 
How  long,  how  long,  Almighty  God  of  all, 
Shall  wrath  vindictive  threaten  ere  it  fall  ? 

Air. 

ISRAELITISH  WOMAN. 

As  panting  flies  the  hunted  hind, 
Where  brooks  refreshing  stray  ; 

And  rivers  through  the  valley  wind, 
That  stop  the  hunter's  way : 

Thus  we,  O  Lord,  alike  distress'd, 

For  streams  of  mercy  long ; 
Streams  which  cheer  the  sore  oppress'd, 

And  overwhelm  the  strong. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

But  whence  that  shout  ?      Good  Heavens  !     Amaze- 
ment all ! 

See  yonder  tower  just  nodding  to  the  fall : 
Behold,  an  army  covers  all  the  ground, 
'Tis  Cyrus  here  that  pours  destruction  round. 
And  now,  behold,  the  battlements  recline  — 
O  God  of  hosts,  the  victory  is  thine ! 
15* 


174  THE    CAPTIVITY  :    AN    ORATORIO. 


CHORUS   OF  CAPTIVKS. 


Down  with  them,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust; 

Thy  vengeance  be  begun  ; 
Serve  them  as  they  have  served  the  just, 

And  let  thy  will  be  done. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

All.  all  is  lost !     The  Syrian  army  fails, 
Cyrus,  the  Conqueror  of  the  world  prevails. 
The  ruin  smokes,  the  torrent  pours  along  — 
How  low  the  proud,  how  feeble  are  the  strong ! 
Save  us,  O  Lord !  to  Thee,  though  late,  we  pray ; 
And  give  repentance  but  an  hour's  delay. 

Air. 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  PRIESTS. 

O  happy,  who  in  happy  hour 
To  God  their  praise  bestow, 

And  own  his  all-consuming  power 
Before  they  feel  the  blow ! 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Now,  now 's  our  time !  ye  wretches,  bold  and  blind, 

Brave  but  to  God,  and  cowards  to  mankind, 

Ye  seek  in  vain  the  Lord  unsought  before, 

Your  wealth,  your  lives,  your  kingdom,  are  no  more. 

Air. 

O  Lucifer,  thou  son  of  morn, 

Of  Heaven  alike,  and  man  the  foe, — 
Heaven,  men,  and  all, 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO.  175 

Now  press  thy  fall, 
And  sink  the  lowest  of  the  low. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

Babylon,  how  art  thou  fallen  ! 
Thy  fall  more  dreadful  from  delay ! 

Thy  streets  forlorn, 

To  wilds  shall  turn, 
Where  toads  shall  pant  and  vultures  prey.. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Such  be  her  fate.     But  hark !  how  from  afar 
The  clarion's  note  proclaims  the  finish'd  war ! 
Our  great  restorer,  Cyrus,  is  at  hand, 
And  this  way  leads  his  formidable  band. 
Give,  give  your  songs  of  Sion  to  the  wind, 
And  hail  the  benefactor  of  mankind : 
He  comes,  pursuant  to  divine  decree, 
To  chain  the  strong,  and  set  the  captive  free. 

CHORUS  OF  YOUTHS. 

Rise  to  transports  past  expressing, 
Sweeter  by  remember'd  woes; 

Cyrus  comes,  our  wrongs  redressing 
Comes  to  give  the  world  repose. 

CHORUS  OF  VIRGINS. 

Cyrus  comes,  the  world  redressing, 
Love  and  pleasure  in  his  train  j 

Comes  to  heighten  every  blessing, 
Comes  to  soften  every  pain. 


176  THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 


Hail  to  him  with  mercy  reigning, 
Skill'd  in  every  peaceful  art ; 

Who,  from  bonds  our  limbs  unchaining, 
Only  binds  the  willing  heart. 


THB  LAST  CHORUS. 


But  chief  to  thee,  our  God,  defender,  friend, 
Let  praise  be  given  to  all  eternity  ; 

O  Thou,  without  beginning,  without  end, 
Let  us,  and  all,  begin  and  end  in  Thee ! 


LINES   ATTRIBUTED  TO  DR.  GOLDSMITH 

INSERTED  IN  THE  MORNING   CHRONICLE,  OF  APRIL  3,   1800. 

E'EN  have  you  seen,  bathed  in  the  morning  dew, 
The  budding  rose  its  infant  bloom  display ; 

When  first  its  virgin  tints  unfold  to  view, 

It  shrinks,  and  scarcely  trusts  the  blaze  of  day : 

So  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sweet  she  came. 

Youth's  damask  glow  just  dawning  on  her  cheek; 

1  gazed,  I  sigh'd,  I  caught  the  tender  flame, 

Felt  the  fond  pang,  and  droop'd  with  passion  weak. 


THE 

GOOD-NATURED   MAN. 
A   COMEDY. 

This  admirable  comedy  was  represented  for  the  first  time  at  Covent 
Garden,  January  29, 1768.  It  kept  possession  of  the  stage  for  nine 
nights,  but  was  considered  by  the  author's  friends  not  to  have  met 
with  all  the  success  it  deserved.  Dr.  Johnson  said  it  was  the  best 
comedy  which  had  appeared  since  '  The  Provoked  Husband,'  and 
Burke  estimated  its  merits  still  higher. 

PREFACE. 

WHEN  I  undertook  to  write  a  comedy,  I  confess  I  was 
strongly  prepossessed  in  favor  of  the  poets  of  the  last  age,  and 
strove  to  imitate  them.  The  term  genteel  comedy  was  then 
unknown  amongst  us,  and  little  more  was  desired  by  an  au- 
dience than  nature  and  humor,  in  whatever  walks  of  life  they 
were  most  conspicuous.  The  author  of  the  following  scenes 
never  imagined  that  more  would  be  expected  of  him,  and 
therefore  to  delineate  character  has  been  his  principal  aim. 
Those  who  know  anything  of  composition  are  sensible  that  in 
pursuing  humor  it  will  sometimes  lead  us  into  the  recesses  of 
the  mean :  I  was  even  tempted  to  look  for  it  in  the  master 
of  a  sponging-house  ;•  but,  in  deference  to  the  public  taste, — 
grown  of  late,  perhaps,  too  delicate, —  the  scene  of  the  bailiffs 
was  retrenched  in  the  representation.  In  deference  also  to 
the  judgment  of  a  few  friends,  who  think  in  a  particular  way, 
the  scene  is  here  restored .  The  author  submits  it  to  the 
reader  in  his  closet,  and  hopes  that  too  much  refinement  will 


178  TRUE  GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

not  banish  humor  and  character  from  ours,  as  it  has  already 
done  from  the  French  theatre.  Indeed,  the  French  comedy 
is  now  become  so  very  elevated  and  sentimental,  that  it  has 
not  only  banished  humor  and  Moliere  from  the  stage,  but  it 
has  banished  all  spectators  too. 

Upon  the  whole,  the  author  returns  his  thanks  to  the  pub- 
lic for  the  favorable  reception  which  the  Good-Natured  Man 
has  met  with  ;  and  to  Mr.  Colman  in  particular,  for  his  kind- 
ness to  it.  It  may  not  also  be  improper  to  assure  any  who 
shall  hereafter  write  for  the  theatre,  that  merit,  or  supposed 
merit,  will  ever  be  a  sufficient  passport  to  his  protection. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

MEN. 

Mr.  Honcywood. 
Croaker. 
Lofty. 

Sir  William  Honeywood. 
Leontine. 
Jarvis. 
Butler. 
Bailiff. 
Dubardieu. 
Postboy. 

WOMEN. 

Miss  Richtand. 

Olivia. 

Mrs.  Croaker. 

Garnet. 

Landlady. 

Scene.—  LONDON, 


THE 

GOOD-NATURED   MAN. 


PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN  BY  DR.  JOHNSON,  SPOKEN  BY  MR.  BENSLEY. 

PRESS'D  by  the  load  of  life,  the  weary  mind 

Surveys  the  general  toil  of  human  kind, 

With  cool  submission  joins  the  lab'ring  train, 

And  social  sorrow  loses  half  its  pain : 

Our  anxious  bard,  without  complaint  may  share 

This  bustling  season's  epidemic  care, 

Like  Caesar's  pilot,  dignified  by  fate, 

Toss'din  one  common  storm  with  all  the  great; 

Distress' d  alike,  the  statesman  and  the  wit, 

When  one  a  Borough  courts,  and  one  the  Pit. 

The  busy  candidates  for  power  and  fame 

Have  hopes,  and  fears,  and  wishes,  just  the  same : 

Disabled  both  to  combat  or  to  fly, 

Must  hear  all  taunts,  and  hear  without  reply ; 

Uncheck'd,  on  both  loud  rabbles  vent  their  rage, 

As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  a  cage. 

Th'  offended  burgess  hoards  his  angry  tale, 

For  that  blest  year  when  all  that  vote  may  rail ; 


180  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Their  schemes  of  spite  the  poet's  foes  dismiss, 
Till  that  glad  night  when  all  that  hate  may  hiss. 
'This  day,  the  powder'd  curls  and  golden  coat/ 
Says  swelling  Crispin,  *  begg'd  a  cobbler's  vote.' 
*  This  night  our  wit,'  the  pert  apprentice  cries, 
4  Lies  at  my  feet — I  hiss  him,  and  he  dies.' 
The  great,  'tis  true,  can  charm  th'  electing  tribe, 
The  bard  may  supplicate,  but  cannot  bribe. 
Yet,  judged  by  those  whose  voices  ne'er  were  sold, 
He  feels  no  want  of  ill-persuading  gold ; 
But  confident  of  praise,  if  praise  be  due, 
Trusts  without  fear  to  merit  and  to  you. 


ACT  FIRST. 

Scene—  AN  APARTMENT  IN  YOUNG  HONEYWOOD'S  HOUSE. 
Enter  Sir  William  Honeywood  and  Jarvia. 

Sir  William.  GOOD  Jarvis,  make  no  apologies  for 
this  honest  bluntness.  Fidelity,  like  yours,  is  the  best 
'excuse  for  every  freedom. 

Jarvis.  I  can't  help  being  blunt,  and  being  very 
angry  too,  when  I  hear  you  talk  of  disinheriting  so 
good,  so  worthy  a  young  gentleman  as  your  nephew, 
my  master.  All  the  world  loves  him. 

Sir  William.  Say  rather,  that  he  loves  all  the 
world  ;  that  is  his  fault. 

Jarvis.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  part  of  it  more  dear 
to  him  than  you  are,  though  he  has  not  seen  you  since 
he  was  a  child. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  181 

Sir  William.  What  signifies  this  affection  to  me  ? 
or  how  can  I  be  proud  of  a  place  in  a  heart,  where 
every  sharper  and  coxcomb  find  an  easy  entrance? 

Jarvis.  I  grant  you  that  he  is  rather  too  good- 
natured  ;  that  he's  too  much  every  man's  man  ;  that  he 
laughs  this  miiMite  with  one,  and  cries  the  next  with  an- 
other :  but  whose  instructions  may  he  thank  for  all  this  ? 

Sir  William.  Not  mine,  sure.  My  letters  to  him 
during  my  employment  in  Italy,  taught  him  only  that 
philosophy  which  might  prevent,  not  defend,  his  errors. 

Jarvis.  Faith,  begging  your  honor's  pardon,  I'm 
sorry  they  taught  him  any  philosophy  at  all ;  it  has  only 
served  to  spoil  him.  This  same  philosophy  is  a  good 
horse  in  a  stable,  but  an  arrant  jade  on  a  journey.  For 
my  own  part,  whenever  I  hear  him  mention  the  name 
on't,  I'm  always  sure  he's  going  to  play  the  fool. 

Sir  William.  Don't  let  us  ascribe  his  faults  to  his 
philosophy,  I  entreat  you.  No,  Jarvis,  his  good-nature 
arises  rather  from  his  fears  of  offending  the  importu- 
nate than  his  desire  of  making  the  deserving  happy. 

Jarvis.  What  it  arises  from,  I  don't  know  ;  but,  to 
be  sure,  everybody  has  it  that  asks  for  it. 

Sir  William.  Ay,  or  that  does  not  ask  it.  I  have 
been  now  for  some  time  a  concealed  spectator  of  his 
follies,  and  find  them  as  boundless  as  his  dissipation. 

Jarvis.  And  yet,  faith,  he  has  some  fine  name  or  other 
for  them  all.  He  calls  his  extravagance  generosity ;  and 
his  trusting  everybody,  universal  benevolence.  It  was 
but  last  week  he  went  security  for  a  fellow  whose  face 
he  scarce  knew,  and  that  he  called  an  act  of  exalted 
mu  — mu  —  munificence  ;  ay,  that  was  the  name  he  gave 
it.  16 


J82  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Sir  William.  And  upon  that  I  proceed,  as  my  last 
effort,  though  with  very  little  hopes,  to  reclaim  him. 
That  very  fellow  has  just  ab'sconded,  and  I  have  taken 
up  the  security.  Now,  my  intention  is  to  involve  him 
in  fictitious  distress,  before  he  has  plunged  himself 
into  real  calamity  :  to  arrest  him  for  that  very  debt, 
to  clap  an  officer  upon  him,  and  then  let  him  see 
which  of  his  friends  will  come  to  his  relief. 

Jarvis.  Well,  if  I  could  but  any  way  see  him  thor- 
oughly vexed,  every  groan  of  his  would  be  music  to 
me ;  yet,  faith,  I  believe  it  impossible.  I  have  tried 
to  fret  him  myself  every  morning  these  three  years ; 
but  instead  of  being  angry,  he  sits  as  calmly  to  hear 
me  scold,  as  he  does  to  his  hair-dresser. 

Sir  William.  We  must  try  him  once  more,  however, 
and  I'll  go  this  instant  to  put  my  scheme  into  execu- 
tion :  and  I  don't  despair  of  succeeding,  as,  by  your 
means,  I  can  have  frequent  opportunities  of  being 
about  him  without  being  known.  What  a  pity  it  is, 
Jarvis,  that  any  man's  good-will  to  others  should  pro- 
duce so  much  neglect  of  himself,  as  to  require  correc- 
tion !  Yet  we  must  touch  his  weaknesses  with  a  deli- 
cate hand.  There  are  some  faults  so  nearly  allied  to 
excellence,  that  we  can  scarce  weed  out  the  vice  with- 
out eradicating  the  virtue.  [Exit. 

Jarvis.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  Sir  William  Honey- 
wood.  It  is  not  without  reason,  that  the  world  allows 
thee  to  be  the  best  of  men.  But  here  comes  his  hope- 
ful nephew  —  the  strange,  good-natured,  foolish,  open 
hearted — And  yet,  all  his  faults  are  such,  that  on? 
loves  him  still  the  better  for  them. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  183 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeywood.  Well,  Jarvis,  what  messages  from  my 
friends  this  morning  ? 

Jarvis.     You  have  no  friends. 

Honeywood.     Well,  from  my  acquaintance,  then  ? 

Jarvis.  (Pulling  out  bills.)  A  few  of  our  usual  cards 
of  compliment,  that's  all.  This  bill  from  your  tailor ; 
this  from  your  mercer  ;  and  this  from  the  little  broker 
in  Crooked-lane.  He  says  he  has  been  at  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  to  get  back  the  money  you  borrowed. 

Honeywood.  That  I  don't  know ;  but  I  am  sure  we 
were  at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  getting  him  to  lend  it. 

Jarvis.     He  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeywood.     Then  he  has  lost  a  very  good  thing. 

Jarvis.  There's  that  ten  guineas  you  were  sending  to 
the  poor  gentleman  and  his  children  in  the  Fleet.  I 
believe  they  would  stop  his  mouth  for  a  while  at  least. 

Honeywood.  Ay,  Jarvis,  but  what  will  fill  their 
mouths  in  the  mean  time  ?  Must  I  be  cruel,  because 
he  happens  to  be  importunate ;  and,  to  relieve  his  ava- 
rice, leave  them  to  insupportable  distress  ? 

Jarvis.  'Sdeath !  sir,  the  question  now  is  how  to  re- 
lieve yourself — yourself.  Haven't  I  reason  to  be  out 
of  my  senses,  when  I  see  things  going  at  sixes  and 
sevens  ? 

Honeywood.  Whatever  reason  you  may  have  for 
being  out  of  your  senses,  I  hope  you'll  allow  that  I'm 
not  quite  unreasonable  for  continuing  in  mine. 

Jarvis.  You  are  the  only  man  alive  in  your  present 
situation  that  could  do  so.  Everything  upon  the  waste. 


J84  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

There's  Miss  Richland  and  her  fine  fortune  gone  al- 
ready and  upon  the  point  of  being  given  to  your  rival. 

Honeywood.     I'm  no  man's  rival. 

Jarvis.  Your  uncle  in  Italy  preparing  to  disinherit 
you  ;  your  own  fortune  almost  spent ;  and  nothing  but 
pressing  creditors,  false  friends,  and  a  pack  of  drunken 
servants  that  your  kindness  has  made  unfit  for  any 
other  family. 

Honeywood.  Then  they  have  the  more  occasion  for 
being  in  mine. 

Jarvis.  Soh !  What  will  you  have  done  with  him 
that  I  caught  stealing  your  plate  in  the  pantry  ?  In 
the  fact  —  I  caught  him  in  the  fact. 

Honeywood.  In  the  fact  ?  If  so,  I  really  think  that 
we  should  pay  him  his  wages,  and  turn  him  off. 

Jarvis.  He  shall  be  turned  Off  at  Tyburn,  the  dog, 
we'll  hang  him,  if  it  be  only  to  frighten  the  rest  of  the 
family. 

Honeywood.  No,  Jarvis  :  it's  enough  that  we  have 
lost  what  he  has  stolen  ;  let  us  not  add  to  it  the  loss  of 
a  fellow-creature ! 

Jarvis.  Very  fine  !  well,  here  was  the  footman  just 
now,  to  complain  of  the  butler :  he  says  he  does  most 
work,  and  ought  to  have  most  wages. 

Honeywood.  That's  but  just ;  though  perhaps  here 
comes  the  butler  to  complain  of  the  footman. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  it's  the  way  with  them  all,  from  the 
scullion  to  the  privy-councillor.  If  they  have  a  bad 
master,  they  keep  quarrelling  with  him  ;  if  they  have  a 
good  master,  they  keep  quarrelling  with  one  another. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  185 

Enter  Butler,  drunk. 

Butler.  Sir,  I'll  not  stay  in  the  family  with  Jona- 
than, you  must  part  with  him,  or  part  with  me,  that's 
the  ex — ex — exposition  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Honeywood.  Full  and  explicit  enough.  But  what 
is  his  fault,  good  Philip  ? 

Butler.  Sir,  he's  given  to  drinking,  sir,  and  I  shall 
have  my  morals  corrupted  by  keeping  such  company. 

Honeywood.  Ha !  ha  !  he  has  such  a  diverting  way  — 

Jarvis.     Oh,  quite  amusing. 

Butler.  I  find  my  wine's  a-going,  sir ;  and  liquors 
don't  go  without  mouths,  sir  —  I  hate  a  drunkard,  sir. 

Honeywood.  Well,  well,  Philip,  I'll  hear  you  upon 
that  another  time ;  so  go  to  bed  now. 

Jarvis.     To  bed !  let  him  go  to  the  devil. 

Butler.  Begging  your  honor's  pardon,  and  begging 
your  pardon,  master  Jarvis,  I'll  not  go  to  bed  nor  to 
the  devil  neither.  I  have  enough  to  do  to  mind  my 
cellar.  I  forgot,  your  honor,  Mr.  Croaker  is  below. 
I  came  on  purpose  to  tell  you. 

Honeywood.  Why  didn't  you  send  him  up,  block- 
head? 

Butler.  Show  him  up,  sir  ?  With  all  my  heart,  sir. 
Up  or  down,  all's  one  to  me.  [Exit. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  we  have  one  or  other  of  that  family  in 
this  house  from  morning  till  night.  He  comes  on  the 
old  affair,  I  suppose.  The  match  between  his  son, 
that's  just  returned  from  Paris,  and  Miss  Richland, 
the  young  lady  he's  guardian  to. 

Honeywood  Perhaps  so.  Mr  Croaker,  knowing  my 
16* 


186  THE    GOOD-NATURED  *MAN. 

friendship  for  the  young  lady,  has  got  it  into  his  head 
that  I  can  persuade  her  to  what  I  please. 

Jarvis.  Ah  !  if  you  loved  yourself  but  half  as  well 
as  she  loves  you,  we  should  soon  see  a  marriage  that 
would  soon  set  all  things  to  rights  again. 

Honeywood.  Love  me  !  Sure,  Jarvis,  you  dream.  No, 
DO  ;  her  intimacy  with  me  never  amounted  to  more  than 
friendship — mere  friendship.  That  she  is  the  most 
lovely  woman  that  ever  warmed  the  human  heart  with 
desire,  I  own :  but  never  let  me  harbor  a  thought  of 
making  her  unhappy,  by  a  connection  with  one  so  un- 
worthy her  merits  as  I  am.  No,  Jarvis,  it  shall  be  my 
study  to  serve  her,  even  in  spite  of  my  wishes ;  and  to 
secure  her  happiness,  though  it  destroys  my  own. 

Jarvis.     Was  ever  the  like  ?     I  want  patience. 

Honeywood.  Besides,  Jarvis,  though  I  could  obtain 
Miss  Richland's  consent,  do  you  think  I  could  succeed 
with  her  guardian,  or  Mrs.  Croaker,  his  wife  ?  who, 
though  both  very  fine  in  their  way,  are  yet  a  little  op- 
posite in  their  dispositions,  you  know. 

Jarvis.  Opposite  enough,  Heaven  knows !  the  very 
reverse  of  each  other :  she  all  laugh,  and  no  joke ;  he 
always  complaining,  and  never  sorrowful — a  fretful, 
poor  soul,  that  has  a  new  distress  for  every  hour  in 
the  four-aud-twenty  — 

Honeywood.  Hush,  hush!  he's  coming  up,  he'll 
hear  you. 

Jarvis.     One  whose  voice  is  a  passing  bell  — 

Honeywood.     Well,  well ;  go,  do. 

Jarvis.  A  raven  that  bodes  nothing  but  mischief — a 
coffin  and  cross-bones  -—  a  bundle  of  rue  —  a  sprig  of 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  187 

deadly     nightshade  —  a  —  (Honeywood,    stopping    his 
mouth,  at  last  pushes  him  off.)  \_Exit  Jarvis. 

Honeywood.  I  must  own  my  old  monitor  is  not  en- 
tirely wrong.  There  is  something  in  my  friend  Croak- 
er's conversation  that  quite  depresses  me.  His  very 
mirth  is  an  antidote  to  all  gaiety,  and  his  appearance 
has  a  stronger  effect  on  my  spirits  than  an  undertaker's 
shop  —  Mr  Croaker,  this  is  such  a  satisfaction  — 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  A  pleasant  morning  to  Mr.  Honeywood, 
and  many  of  them.  How  is  this  ?  you  look  most 
shockingly  to-day,  my  dear  friend.  I  hope  this  weath- 
er does  not  affect  your  spirits.  To  be  sure,  if  this 
weather  continues  —  I  say  nothing ;  but  God  send  we 
be  all  better  this  day  three  months  ! 

Honeywood.  I  heartily  concur  in  the  wish,  though, 
I  own,  not  in  your  apprehensions. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies  what 
weather  we  have  in  a  country  going  to  ruin  like  ours  ? 
taxes  rising  and  trade  falling :  money  flying  out  of  the 
kingdom,  and  Jesuits  swarming  into  it.  I  know,  at 
this  time,  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty-seven 
Jesuits  between  Charing  Cross  and  Temple  Bar. 

Honeywood.  The  Jesuits,  will  scarce  pervert  you 
or  me,  I  should  hope. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies  whom 
they  pervert,  in  a  country  that  has  scarce  any  religion 
to  lose  ?  I'm  only  afraid  for  our  wives  and  daughters. 

Honeywood.  I  have  no  apprehensions  for  the  ladies, 
I  assure  you. 


188  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  vvnat  signifies  whether 
they  be  perverted  or  no  ?  The  women  in  my  time  were 
good  for  S9mething.  I  have  seen  a  lady  drest  from 
top  to  toe  in  her  own  manufactures  formerly ;  but 
now-a-days,  the  devil  a  thing  of  their  own  manuiac- 
ture's  about  them,  except  their  faces. 

Honeywood.  But,  however  these  faults  may  be 
ractised  abroad,  you  don't  find  them  at  home,  either 
ith  Mrs.  Croaker,  Olivia,  or  Miss  Richland  ? 

Croaker.  The  best  of  them  will  never  be  canonized 
for  a  saint  when  she's  dead.— By  the  by,  my  dear  friend, 
I  don't  find  this  match  between  Miss  Richland  and  my 
son  much  relished,  either  by  one  side  or  t'other. 

Honeywood.     I  thought  otherwise. 

Croaker.  Ah !  Mr.  Honeywood,  a  little  of  your  fine 
serious  advice  to  the  young  lady  might  go  far :  I  know 
she  has  a  very  exalted  opinion  of  your  understanding. 

Honeywood.  But  would  not  that  be  usurping  an 
authority,  that  more  properly  belongs  to  yourself  ? 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  you  know  but  little  of  my 
authority  at  home.  People  think,  indeed,  because  they 
see  me  come  out  in  the  morning  thus,  with  a  pleasant 
face,  and  to  make  my  friends  merry,  that  all's  well 
within.  But  I  have  cares  that  would  break  a  heart  of 
stone.  My  wife  has  so  encroached  upon  every  one  of 
my  privileges,  that  I'm  now  no  more  than  a  mere 
lodger  in  my  own  house. 

Honeywood.  But  a  little  spirit  exerted  on  your  side 
might  perhaps  restore  your  authority. 

Croaker.  No,  though  I  had  the  spirit  of  a  lion !  I  do 
rouse  sometimes  ;  but  what  then  ?  always  haggling  and 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  189 

haggling.  A  man  is  tired  of  getting  the  better,  before 
bis  wife  is  tired  of  losing  the  victory. 

Honey  wood.  It 's  a  melancholy  consideration,  indeed, 
that  our  chief  comforts  often  produce  our  greatest  anxie- 
ties, and  that  an  increase  of  our  possessions  is  but  an 
inlet  to  new  disquietudes. 

Croaker.  Ah !  my  dear  friend,  these  were  the  very 
words  of  poor  Dick  Doleful  to  me,  not  a  week  before  he 
made  away  with  himself.  Indeed,  Mr.  Honeywood,  I 
never  see  you  but  you  put  me  in  mind  of  poor  Dick, 
Ah !  there  was  merit  neglected  for  you ;  and  so  true  a 
friend !  we  loved  each  other  for'  thirty  years,  and  yet  he 
never  asked  me  to  lend  him  a  single  farthing. 

Honeywood.  Pray  what  could  induce  him  to  commit 
so  rash  an  action  at  last  V 

Croaker.  I  don't  know;  some  people  were  malicious 
enough  to  say  it  was  keeping  company  with  me,  because 
we  used  to  meet  now  and  then,  and  open  our  hearts  to 
each  other.  To  be  sure,  I  loved  to  hear  him  talk,  and  he 
loved  to  hear  me  talk :  poor,  dear  Dick !  He  used  to  say 
that  Croaker  rhymed  to  joker ;  and  so  we  used  to  laugb 
—  Poor  Dick  !  [  Going  to  cry. 

Honeywood.     His  fate  affects  me. 

Croaker.  Ah !  he  grew  sick  of  this  miserable  life, 
where  we  do  nothing  but  eat  and  grow  hungry,  dress  and 
undress,  get  up  and  lie  down ;  while  reason,  that  should 
watch  like  a  nurse  by  our  side,  falls  as  fast  asleep  ad 
we  do. 

Honeywood.  To  say  a  truth,  if  we  compare  that  part 
of  life  which  is  to  come  by  that  which  we  have  past  thr 
prospect  is  hideous. 


190  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Oroaker.  Life,  at  the  greatest  and  best,  is  but  a 
forward  child,  that  must  be  humored  and  coaxed  a  lit- 
tle till  it  falls  asleep,  and  then  all  the  care  is  over. 

Honeywood.  Very  true,  sir,  nothing  can  exceed  the- 
vanity  of  our  existence,  but  the  folly  of  our  pursuits. 
We  wept  when  we  came  into  the  world,  and  every  day 
tells  us  why. 

Croaker.  Ah !  my  dear  friend,  it  is  a  perfect  satis- 
faction to  be  miserable  with  you.  My  son  Leontine 
shan't  lose  the  benefit  of  such  fine  conversation.  I'll 
just  step  home  for  him.  I  am  willing  to  show  him  so 
much  seriousness  in  one  scarce  older  than  himself. 
And  what  if  I  bring  my  last  letter  to  the  Gazetteer,  on 
the  increase  and  progress  of  earthquakes?  It  will 
amuse  us,  I  promise  you.  I  there  prove  how  the  late 
earthquake  is  coming  round  to  pay  us  another  visit  — 
from  London  to  Lisbon  —  from  Lisbon  to  the  Canary 
Islands  —  from  the  Canary  Islands  to  Palmyra  — from 
Palmyra  to  Constantinople,  and  so  from  Constantino- 
ple back  to  London  again.  [Exit. 
Honeyivood.  Poor  Croaker!  his  situation  deserves 
the  utmost  pity.  I  shall  scarce  recover  my  spirits 
these  three  days.  Sure,  to  live  upon  such  terms,  is 
worse  than  death  itself.  An  yet,  when  I  consider  my 
own  situation  —  a,  broken  fortune,  a  hopeless  passion, 
friends  in  distress,  the  wish,  but  not  the  power  to  serve 
them [Pausing  and  sighing. 

Enter  Butler. 

Butler.  More  company  below,  sir;  Mrs.  Croaker 
Aiul  Miss  Ricliland  ;  shall  I  show  them  up  ?  — but 
they' iv  >ho\vmg  up  themselves.  [Exit* 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  191 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker  and  Miss  Richland. 

Miss  Richland.     You  're  always  in  such  spirits. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  We  have  just  come,  my  dear  Hon- 
ey wood,  from  the  auction.  There  was  the  old  deaf 
dowager,  as  usual,  bidding  like  a  fury  against  herself. 
And  then  so  curious  in  antiquities !  herself,  the  most 
genuine  piece  of  antiquity  in  the  whole  collection. 

Honeywood.  Excuse  me  ladies,  if  some  uneasiness 
from  friendship  makes  me  unfit  to  share  in  this  good 
humor  :  I  know  you'll  pardon  me. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  I  vow  he  seems  as  melancholy  as  if 
he  had  taken  a  dose  of  my  husband  this  morning. 
Well,  if  Richland  here  can  pardon  you,  I  must. 

Miss  Richland.  You  would  seem  to  insinuate,  mad- 
am, that  I  have  particular  reasons  for  being  disposed 
to  refuse  it. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Whatever  I  insinuate,  my  dear, 
do  n't  be  so  ready  to  wish  an  explanation. 

Miss  Richland.  I  own  I  should -be  sorry  Mr.  Hon- 
ey wood's  long  friendship  and  mine  should  be  misun- 
derstood. 

Honeywood.  There's  no  answering  for  others,  mad- 
am. But  I  hope  you'll  never  find  me  presuming  to 
offer  more  than  the  most  delicate  friendship  may  read- 
ily allow. 

Miss  Richland.  And  I  shall  be  prouder  of  such  a 
tribute  from  you,  than  the  most  passionate  professions 
from  others. 

Honeywood.  My  own  sentiments,  madam :  friend- 
ship is  a  disinterested  commerce  between  equals  ;  love, 
an  abject  intercourse  between  tyrants  and  slaves. 


J92  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Miss  Richland.  And  without  a  compliment,  1  know 
none  more  disinterested,  or  more  capable  of  friendship 
than  Mr.  Honey  wood. 

Mrs.  Croaker  And.  indeed,  I  know  nobody  that 
has  more  friends,  at  least  among  the  ladies.  Mis? 
Fruzz,  Miss  Oddbody,  and  Miss  Winterbottom,  praise 
him  in  all  companies.  As  for  Miss  Biddy  Bundle, 
she's  his  professed  admirer. 

Miss  Richland.  Indeed  !  an  admirer !  —  I  did  not 
know,  sir,  you  were  such  a  favorite  there.  But  is  she 
seriouly  so  handsome  ?  Is  she  the  mighty  thing  talked 
of? 

Honeywood.  The  town,  madam,  seldom  begins  to 
praise  a  lady's  beauty,  till  she 's  beginning  to  lose  it. 

[Smiling. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  she  's  resolved  never  to  lose  it, 
it  seems.  For  as  her  natural  face  decays,  her  skill 
improves  in  making  the  artificial  one.  Well,  nothing 
diverts  me  more  than  one  of  those  fine,  old,  dressy 
things,  who  thinks  to  conceal  her  age  by  everywhere 
exposing  her  person ;  sticking  herself  up  in  the  front 
of  a  side-box  ;  trailing  through  a  minuet  at  Almack's, 
and  then,  in  the  public  gardens  —  looking,  for  all  the 
world,  like  one  of  the  painted  ruins  of  the  place. 

Honeywood.  Every  age  has  its  admirers,  Ladies. 
While  you,  perhaps,  are  trading  among  the  warmer 
climates  of  youth,  there  ought  to  be  some  to  carry  on 
a  useful  commerce  in  the  frozen  latitudes  beyond  fifty. 

Miss.  Richland.  But,  then,  the  mortifications  they 
must  suffer,  before  they  can  be  fitted  out  for  traffic.  I 
have  seen  one  of  them  fret  a  whole  morning  at  her 
hair  dresser,  when  all  the  fault  was  her  face. 


THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN.  193 

Eoneywood.  And  yet,  I'll  engage,  has  carried  that 
face  at  last  to  a  very  good  market.  This  good-natured 
town,  madam,  has  husbands,  like  spectacles,  to  fit 
every  age  from  fifteen  to  fourscore. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Well,  you're  a  dear  good-natured 
creature.  But  you  know  you're  engaged  with  us  this 
morning  upon  a  strolling  party.  I  want  to  show  Olivia 
the  town,  and  the  things :  I  believe  I  shall  have  busi- 
ness for  you  the  whole  day. 

Honeywood.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment with  Mr.  Croaker,  which  it  is  impossible  to  put 
off. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What!  with  my  husband?  then  I'm 
resolved  to  take  no  refusal.  Nay,  I  protest  you  must. 
You  know  I  never  laugh  so  much  as  with  you. 

Honeywood.  Why,  if  I  must,  I  must.  I  '11  swear 
you  have  put  me  into  such  spirits.  Well,  do  you  find 
jest,  and  I'll  find  laugh,  I  promise  you.  We'll  wait 
for  the  chariot  in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Leontine  and  Olivia. 

Leontine.  There  they  go,  thoughtless  and  happy. 
My  dearest  Olivia,  what  would  I  give  to  see  you  capa- 
ble of  sharing  in  their  amusements,  and  as  cheerful  as 
they  are ! 

Olivia.  How,  my  Leontine,  how  can  I  be  cheerful, 
when  I  have  so  many  terrors  to  oppress  me  ?  The  fear 
of  being  detected  by  this  family,  and  the  apprehen- 
sions of  a  censuring  world,  when  I  must  be  detected  — 

Leontine.  The  world,  my  love !  what  can  it  say  ? 
17 


194  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

At  worst  it  can  only  say,  that,  being  compelled  by  a 
mercenary  guardian  to  embrace  a  life  you  disliked,  you 
formed  a  resolution  of  flying  with  the  man  of  your 
choice  ;  that  you  confided  in  his  honor,  and  took  refuge 
in  my  father's  house, —  the  only  one  where  yours  could 
remain  without  censure. 

Olivia.  But  consider,  Leontine,  your  disobedience 
and  my  indiscretion ;  your  being  sent  to  France  to 
bring  home  a  sister,  and  instead  of  a  sister,  bringing 
home 

Leontine.  One  dearer  than  a  thousand  sisters.  One 
that  I  am  convinced  will  be  equally  dear  to  the  rest  of 
the  family,  when  she  comes  to  be  known. 

Olivia.     And  that,  I  fear,  will  shortly  be. 

Leontine.  Impossible,  till  we  ourselves  think  pro- 
per to  make  the  discovery.  My  sister,  you  know,  has 
been  with  her  aunt,  at  Lyons,  since  she  was  a  child, 
and  you  find  every  creature  in  the  family  takes  you 
for  her. 

Olivia.  But  mayn't  she  write,  mayn't  her  aunt 
write  ? 

Leontine.  Her  aunt  scarce  ever  writes,  and  all  my 
sister's  letters  are  directed  to  me. 

Olivia.  But  won't  your  refusing  Miss  Richland,  for 
whom  you  know  the  old  gentleman  intends  you,  create 
a  suspicion  ? 

Leontine.  There,  there 's  my  master-stroke.  I  have 
resolved  not  to  refuse  her ;  nay,  an  hour  hence  I  have 
consented  to  go  with  my  father  to  make  her  an  offer 
of  my  heart  and  fortune. 

Olivia.     Your  heart  and  fortune  ? 

Leontine.      Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dearest.      Can 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  196 

Olivia  think  so  meanly  of  my  honor,  or  my  love,  as  to 
suppose  I  could  ever  hope  for  happiness  from  any  but 
her  ?  No,  my  Olivia,  neither  the  force,  nor,  permit  me 
to  add,  the  delicacy  of  my  passion,  leave  any  room  to 
suspect  me.  I  only  offer  Miss  Richland  a  heart  I  am 
convinced  she  will  refuse ;  as  I  am  confident,  that, 
without  knowing  it,  her  affections  are  fixed  upon  Mr. 
Honeywood. 

Olivia.  Mr.  Honeywood !  You  '11  excuse  my  appre- 
hensions ;  but  when  your  merits  come  to  be  put  in  the 
balance 

Leontine.  You  view  them  with  too  much  partiality. 
However,  by  making  this  offer,  I  show  a  seeming  com- 
pliance with  my  father's  command ;  and  perhaps,  upon 
her  refusal,  I  may  have  his  consent  to  choose  for 
myself. 

Olivia.  Well,  I  submit.  And  yet,  my  Leontine, 
I  own,  I  shall  envy  her  even  your  pretended  addresses. 
I  consider  every  look,  every  expression  of  your  esteem, 
as  due  only  to  me.  This  is  folly,  p'erhaps  ;  I  allow  it ; 
but  it  is  natural  to  suppose,  that  merit  which  has  made 
#n  impression  on  one's  own  heart  may  be  powerful  over 
that  of  another. 

Leontine.  Don't,  my  life's  treasure,  don't  let  us 
make  imaginary  evils,  when  you  know  we  have  so 
many  real  ones  to  encounter.  At  worst,  you  know,  if 
Miss  Richland  should  consent,  or  my  father  refuse  his 
pardon,  it  can  but  end  in  a  trip  to  Scotland ;  and 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Where  have  you  been,  boy  ?  I  have  been 
seeking  you.  My  friend  Honeywood  here  has  been 


196  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

saying  such  comfortable  things !  Ah  !  he 's  an  example 
indeed.  Where  is  he  ?  I  left  him  here. 

Leontine.  Sir,  I  believe  you  may  see  him,  and  heai 
him  too,  in  the  next  room :  he 's  preparing  to  go  out 
with  the  ladies. 

Croaker.  Good  gracious !  can  I  believe  my  eyes  01 
my  ears :  I  'm  struck  dumb  with  his  vivacity,  and 
stunned  with  the  loudLess  of  his  laugh.  Was  there 
ever  such  a  transformation  !  (a  laugh  behind  the  scenes, 
Croaker  mimics  it.)  Ha!  ha!  ha!  there  it  goes;  a 
plague  take  their  balderdash  !  yet  I  could  expect  noth- 
ing less,  when  my  precious  wife  was  of  the  party.  On 
my  conscience,  I  believe  she  could  spread  a  horse-laugh 
through  the  pews  of  a  tabernacle. 

Leontine.  Since  you  find  so  many  objections  to  u 
wife,  sir,  how  can  you  be  so  earnest  in  recommending 
one  to  me. 

Croaker.  I  have  told  you,  and  tell  you  again,  boy, 
that  Miss  Richland's  fortune  must  not  go  out  of  the 
family  ;  one  may  find  comfort  in  the  money,  whatever 
one  does  in  the  wife. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  though  in  obedience  to  your 
desire,  I  am  ready  to  marry  her,  it  may  be  possible  she 
has  no  inclination  to  me. 

Croaker.  I  '11  tell  you  once  for  all  how  it  stands.  A 
good  part  of  Miss  Richland's  large  fortune  consists  LB 
a  claim  upon  government,  which  my  good  friend,  Mr. 
Lofty,  assures  me  the  Treasury  will  allow.  One  half 
of  this  she  is  to  forfeit,  by  her  father's  will,  in  case  she 
refuses  to  marry  you.  So,  if  she  rejects  you,  we  seize 
half  her  fortune ;  if  she  accepts  you,  we  seize  the 
,  and  a  fine  girl  into  the  bargain. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  197 

Leontine.     But,  sir,  if  you  will  listen  to  reason 

Croaker.  Come,  then,  produce  your  reasons.  I  tell 
I'm  fixed,  determined  —  so  now  produce  your  rea- 
sons. When  I  am  determined,  I  always  listen  to 
reason  because  it  can  then  do  no  harm. 

Leontine.  You  have  alleged  that  a  mutual  choice 
was  the  first  requisite  in  matrimonial  happiness. 

Croaker.  Well,  and  you  have  both  of  you  a  mutual 
choice.  She  has  her  choice, — to  marry  you  or  lose 
half  her  fortune ;  and  you  have  your  choice, —  to 
marry  her,  or  pack  out  of  doors,  without  any  fortune 
at  all. 

Leontine.  An  only  son,  sir,  might  expect  more 
indulgence. 

Croaker.  An  only  father,  sir,  might  expect  more 
obedience  ;  besides,  has  not  your  sister  here,  that  never 
disobliged  me  in  her  life,  as  good  a  right  as  you?  He's 
a  sad  dog,  Livy,  my  dear,  and  would  take  all  from  you. 
But  he  shan't,  I  tell  you  he  shan't ;  for  you  shall  have 
your  share. 

Olivia.  Dear  sir,  I  wish  you  'd  be  convinced,  that 
I  can  never  be  happy  in  any  addition  to  my  fortune, 
which  is  taken  from  his. 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  it 's  a  good  child,  so  say  no 
more ;  but  come  with  me,  and  we  shall  see  something 
that  will  give  us  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  I  promise 
yOUj__old.  Ruggins,  the  curry-comb  maker,  lying  in 
state.  I  am  told  he  makes  a  very  handsome  corpse, 
and  becomes  his  coffin  prodigiously.  He  was  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  mine,  and  these  are  friendly  things  we 
ought  to  do  for  each  other.  [JSxeunt, 

17* 


198  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

ACT  SECOND. 

SCKNE  —  Croaker's  house. 
Miss  Richland,  Garnet. 

Miss  Richland.  Olivia  not  his  sister !  Olivia  not 
Leontine's  sister  ?  You  amaze  me. 

Garnet.  No  more  his  sister  than  I  am  ;  I  had  it  all 
from  his  own  servant :  I  can  get  anything  from  that 
quarter. 

Miss  Richland.    But  how  ?    Tell  me  again,  Garnet. 

Garnet.  Why,  madam,  as  I  told  you  before,  instead 
of  going  to  Lyons  to  bring  home  his  sister,  who  has 
been  there  with  her  aunt  these  ten  years,  he  never 
went  farther  than  Paris  ;  there  he  saw  and  fell  in  love 
with  this  young  lady  —  by  the  by,  of  a  prodigious 
family. 

Miss  Richland.  And  brought  her  home  to  my 
guardian  as  his  daughter  ? 

Garnet.  Yes,  and  his  daughter  she  will  be.  If  he 
don't  consent  to  their  marriage,  they  talk  of  trying 
what  a  Scotch  parson  can  do. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  I  own  they  have  deceived 
me.  And  so  demurely  as  Olivia  carried  it  too!  — 
Would  you  believe  it,  Garnet,  I  told  her  all  my  secrets ; 
and  yet  the  sly  cheat  concealed  all  this  from  me ! 

Garnet.  And,  upon  my  word,  madam,  I  do  n't  much 
blame  her :  she  was  loath  to  trust  one  with  her  secrets, 
that  was  so  very  bad  at  keeping  her  own. 

Miss  Richland.  But,  to  add  to  their  deceit,  the  young 
gentleman,  it  seems,  pretends  to  make  me  serious  pro- 
posals. My  guardian  and  he  are  to  be  here  presently, 


THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  199 

to  open  the  affair  in  form.  You  know  I  am  to  lose 
half  my  fortune  if  I  refuse  him. 

Garnet.  Yet,  what  can  you  do  ?  For  being,  as 
you  are,  in  love  with  Mr.  Honey  wood,  madam 

Miss  Richland.  How !  idiot,  what  do  you  mean  ? 
In  love  with  Mr.  Honey  wood!  Is  this  to  provoke  me? 

Garnet.  That  is,  madam,  in  friendship  with  him : 
I  meant  nothing  more  than  friendship,  as  I  hope  to  be 
married  —  nothing  more. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  no  more  of  this.  As  to  my 
guardian  and  his  son,  they  shall  find  me  prepared  to 
receive  them:  I'm  resolved  to  accept  their  proposal 
with  seeming  pleasure,  to  mortify  them  by  compliance 
and  so  throw  the  refusal  at  last  upon  them. 

Garnet,  Delicious !  and  that  will  secure  your  whole 
fortune  to  yourself.  "Well,  who  could  have  thought  so 
innocent  a  face  could  cover  so  much  'cuteness ! 

Miss  Richland.  Why,  girl,  I  only  oppose  my  pru- 
dence to  their  cunning,  and  practise  a  lesson  they  have 
taught  me  against  themselves. 

Garnet.  Then  you're  likely  not  long  to  want  em- 
ployment, for  here  they  come,  and  in  close  conference. 

Enter  Croaker  and  Leontine. 

Leontine.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  seem  to  hesitate 
upon  the  point  of  putting  to  the  lady  so  important  a 
question. 

Croaker.  Lord!  good  sir,  moderate  your  fears; 
you  're  so  plaguy  shy,  that  one  would  think  you  had 
changed  sexes.  I  tell  you  we  must  have  the  half  or 
the  whole.  Come,  let  me  see  with  what  spirit  you  be- 
gin :  Well,  why  do  n't  you  ?  Eh !  What  ?  Well,  then,, 


200  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

I  must,  it  seems  —  Miss  Richland,  my  dear,  I  believe 
you  guess  at  our  business ;  an  affair  which  my  son 
here  comes  to  open,  that  nearly  concerns  your  happi- 


Miss  Richland.  Sir,  I  should  be  ungrateful  not  to 
be  pleased  with  anything  that  comes  recommended  by 
you. 

Croaker.  How,  boy,  could  you  desire  a  finer  open- 
ing ?  Why  do  n't  you  begin,  I  say  ?  [  To  Leontine. 

Leontine.     'Tis  true,  madam  —  my  father,  madam 

—  has   some   intentions  —  hem  —  of    explaining    an 
affair, —  which  —  himself  can  best  explain,  madam. 

Croaker.  Yes,  my  de;  r ;  it  comes  entirely  from  my 
son;  it's  all  a  request  ./f  Lis  own,  madam.  And  I 
will  permit  him  to  make  the  btjst  of  it. 

Leontine.  The  whole  affair  is  only  this,  madam : 
my  father  has  a  proposal  to  wiake,  which  he  insists 
none  but  himself  shall  deliver. 

Croaker.  My  mind  misgives  me,  the  fellow  will 
never  be  brought  on.  (Aside.)  In  short,  madam,  you 
see  before  you  one  that  loves  you  —  one  whose  whole 
happiness  is  all  hi  you. 

Miss  Richland.  I  never  had  any  doubts  of  your  re* 
gards,  sir ;  and  I  hope  you  can  have  none  of  my  duty. 

Croaker.     That 's  not  the  thing,  my  little  sweeting 

—  my  love !  no,  no,  another  guess  lover  than  I:  there 
he  stands,  madam ;  his  very  looks  declare  the  force  of 
his  passion  —  Call  up  a  look,  you  dog !     (Aside.)    But 
then,  had  you  seen  him,  as  I  have,  weeping,  speaking 
soliloquies  and   blank  verse,  sometimes   melancholy, 
and  sometimes  absent 

Miss  Richland.     I  fear,  sir,  he's  absent  now ;    or 


THE    GOOJO-NATUKED   MAN.  201 

eueh  a  declaration  would  have  come  most  properly  from 
himself. 

Croaker,  Himself!  Madam,  he  would  die  before 
he  could  maJte  such  a  confession ;  and  if  he  had  not  a 
channel  for  his  passion  through  me,  it  would  ere  now 
have  drowned  his  understanding. 

Miss  Richland.  I  must  grant,  sir,  there  are  attrac- 
tions in  modest  diffidence  above  the  force  of  words.  A 
silent  address  is  the  genuine  eloquence  of  sincerity. 

Croaker.  Madam,  he  has  forgot  to  speak  any  other 
language  ;  silence  is  become  his  mother-tongue. 

Miss  Richland.  And  it  must  be  confessed,  sir,  it 
speaks  very  powerfully  in  his  favor.  And  yet  I  shall 
be  thought  too  forward  in  making  such  a  confession ; 
shan't  I,  Mr.  Leontine  ? 

Leontine.  Confusion !  my  reserve  will  undo  me. 
But,  if  modesty  attracts  her,  impudence  may  disgust 
her.  I'll  try.  (Aside.)  Do  n't  imagine  from  my  si- 
lence, madam,  that  I  want  a  due  sense  of  the  honor 
and  happiness  intended  me.  My  father,  madam,  tells 
me  your  humble  servant  is  not  totally  indifferent  to 
you — he  admires  you:  I  adore  you;  and  when  wo 
come  together,  upon  my  soul,  I  believe  we  shall  be  the 
happiest  couple  in  all  St.  James's. 

Miss  Richland.  If  I  could  flatter  myself  you 
tho&ght  as  you  speak,  sir 

Leontine.  Doubt  my  sincerity,  madam  ?  By  your 
dear  self  I  swear.  Ask  the  brave  if  they  desire  glory ! 
ask  cowards  if  they  covet  safety 

Croaker.     Well,  well,  no  more  questions  about  it. 

Leontine.  Ask  the  sick  if  they  long  for  health ;  asl< 
misers  if  they  love  money  ?  ask 


202  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Croaker.  Ask  a  fool  if  he  can  talk  nonsense? 
What's  come  over  the  boy  ?  What  signifies  asking, 
when  there's  not  a  soul  to  give  you  an  answer  ?  It 
you  would  ask  to  the  purpose,  ask  this  lady's  consent 
to  make  you  happy. 

Miss  Richland.  Why,  indeed,  sir,  his  uncommon 
ardor  almost  compels  me  —  forces  me  to  reply.  And 
yet  I'm  afraid  he'll  despise  a  conquest  gained  with 
too  much  ease  ;  won 't  you,  Mr.  Leontiue  ? 

Leontine.  Confusion  !  (Aside.)  Oh,  by  no  means, 
madam,  by  no  means.  And  yet,  madam,  you  talked 
of  force.  There  is  nothing  I  would  avoid  so  much  as 
compulsion  in  a  thing  of  this  kind.  No,  madam,  I 
will  still  be  generous,  and  leave  you  at  liberty  to  re- 
fuse. 

Croaker.  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  the  lady  is  not  at  lib- 
erty. It's  a  match.  You  see  she  says  nothing. 
Silence  gives  consent. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  she  talked  of  force.  Consider, 
sir,  the  cruelty  of  constraining  her  inclinations. 

Croaker.  But  I  say  there's  no  cruelty.  Don't  you 
know,  blockhead,  that  girls  have  always  a  round-about 
way  of  saying  yes  before  company  ?  So  get  you  both 
gone  together  into  the  next  room,  and  hang  him  that 
interrupts  the  tender  explanations.  Get  you  gone,  I 
say  ;  I'll  not  hear  a  word. 

Leontine.     But,  sir,  I  must  beg  leave  to  insist 

Croaker.  Get  off,  you  puppy,  or  I'll  beg  leave  to 
insist  upon  knocking  you  down.  Stupid  whelp !  But 
I  do  n't  wonder :  the  boy  takes  entirely  after  his 
mother.  [Exeunt  Miss  Richland  and  Leontine. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  203 

Muter  Mrs.  Croaker. 

Mrs  Croaker.  Mr.  Croaker,  I  bring  you  something 
my  dear,  that  I  believe  will  make  you  smile. 

Croaker.  I  '11  hold  you  a  guinea  of  that,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  A  letter ;  and  as  I  knew  the  hand, 
I  ventured  to  open  it. 

Croaker.  And  how  can  you  expect  your  breaking 
open  my  letters  should  give  me  pleasure  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Pooh !  it 's  from  your  sister  at  Lyons, 
and  contains  good  news :  read  it. 

Croaker.  What  a  Frenchified  cover  is  here !  That 
sister  of  mine  has  some  good  qualities ;  but  I  could 
never  teach  her  to  fold  a  letter. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Fold  a  fiddlestick !  Read  what  it 
contains. 

Croaker  (reading.) 

'  DEAR  NICK, — An  English  gentleman,  of  large  for- 
tune, has  for  some  time  made  private,  though  honora- 
ble, proposals  to  your  daughter  Olivia.  They  love 
each  other  tenderly,  and  I  find  she  has  consented, 
without  letting  any  of  the  family  know,  to  crown  his 
addresses.  As  such  good  offers  do  n't  come  every  day, 
your  own  good  sense,  his  large  furtune,  and  family 
considerations,  will  induce  you  to  forgive  her.  Yours 
ever.  RACHAEL  CROAKER. 

My  daughter  Olivia  privately  contracted  to  a  man  of 
large  fortune !  This  is  good  news  indeed.  My  heart 
never  foretold  me  of  this.  And  yet,  how  slyly  the  lit- 
tle baggage  has  carried  it  since  she  came  home ;  not  a 


204  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

word  on 't  to  the  old  ones  for  the  world.  Yet  I  thought 
I  saw  some  thing  she  wanted  to  conceal. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Well,  if  they  have  concealed  their 
amour,  they  shan't  conceal  their  wedding ;  that  shalT 
be  public,  I  'm  resolved. 

Croaker.  I  tell  thee,  woman,  the  wedding  is  the 
most  foolish  part  of  the  ceremony.  I  can  never  get 
tli is  woman  to  think  of  the  most  serious  part  of  the 
nuptial  engagement. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What !  would  you  have  me  think  of 
their  funeral !  But  come,  tell  me,  my  dear,  do  n't  you 
owe  more  to  me  than  you  care  to  confess  ?  — Would 
you  have  ever  been  known  to  Mr.  Lofty,  who  has  un- 
dertaken Miss  Richland's  claim  at  the  Treasury,  but 
for  me  ?  Who  was  it  first  made  him  an  ar<ju:iintance 
at  Lady  Shabbaroon's  rout.  Who  got  him  to  promise 
us  his  interest  ?  Is  not  he  a  back-stair  favorite  —  one 
that  can  do  what  he  pleases  with  those  that  do  what 
they  please  ?  Is  not  he  an  acquaintance  that  all  your 
groaning  and  lamentations  could  never  have  got  us. 

Croaker.  He  is  a  man  of  importance,  I  grant  you. 
And  yet,  what  amazes  me  is,  that,  while  he  is  giving 
away  places  to  all  the  world,  he  can't  get  one  for  him- 
self. 

Mrs.  Croaker  That,  perhaps,  may  be  owing  to  his 
nicety.  Great  men  are  not  easily  satisfied. 

Enter  French  Servant, 

Servant.  An  expresse  from  Monsieur  Lofty.  He 
vil  be  vait  upon  your  honors  instammant.  He  be  only 
giving  four  five  instruction,  read  two  tree  memorial, 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  205 

call  upon  von  ambassadeur.  He  vil  be  vid  you  in  one 
tree  minutes. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  You  see  now,  my  dear.  What  an 
extensive  department !  Well,  friend,  let  your  master 
know  that  we  are  extremely  honored  by  this  honor. 
Was  there  anything  ever  in  a  higher  style  of  breeding  ? 
All  messages  among  the  great  are  now  done  by  ex- 
press. \_Exit  French  Servant. 

Croaker.  To  be  sure,  no  man  does  little  things 
with  more  solemnity,  or  claims  more  respect  than  he. 
But  he  's  in  the  right  on  't.  In  our  bad  world,  respect 
is  given  where  respect  is  claimed. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Never  mind  the  world,  my  dear ; 
you  were  never  in  a  pleasanter  place  in  your  life.  Let 
us  now  think  of  receiving  him  with  proper  respect,  (a 
loud  rapping  at  the  door,)  and  there  he  is,  by  the  thun- 
dering rap. 

Croaker.  Ay,  verily,  there  he  is  !  as  close  upon  the 
heels  of  his  own  express,  as  an  endorsement  upon  the 
back  of  a  bill.  Well,  I'll  leave  you  to  receive  him, 
whilst  I  go  to  chide  my  little  Olivia  for  intending  to 
steal  a  marriage  without  mine  or  her  aunt's  consent. 
I  must  seem  to  be  angry,  or  she  too  may  begin  to  de- 
spise my  authority.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Lofty,  speaking  to  his  Servant. 

Lofty.  And  if  the  Venetian  ambassador,  or  that 
teasing  creature,  the  Marquis,  should  call,  I'm  not  at 
home.  Damme,  I'll  be  pack-horse  to  none  of  them. 
—  My  dear  madam,  I  have  just  snatched  a  moment  — 
And  if  the  expresses  to  his  Grace  be  ready,  let  them 
18 


206  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

be  sent  off ;  they  are  of  importance.     Madam,  I  ask 
ten  thousand  pardons. 

Mrs.  Croaker.     Sir,  this  honor • 

Lofty.  And,  Dubardieu  ?  if  the  person  calls  about 
the  commission,  let  him  know  that  it  is  made  out.  As  for 
Lord  Cumbercourt's  stale  request,  it  can  keep  cold :  you 
understand  me. —  Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons. 

Mrs.  Croaker.     Sir,  this  honor 

Lofty.  And  Dubardieu !  if  the  man  comes  from  the 
Cornish  borough,  you  must  do  him ;  you  must  do  him, 
I  say  —  Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons. — And  if 
the  Russian  ambassador  calls ;  but  he  will  scarce  call 
to-day,  I  believe. — And  now,  madam,  I  have  just  got 
time  to  express  my  happiness  in  having  the  honor  of 
being  permitted  to  profess  myself  your  most  obedient, 
humble  servant. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Sir,  the  happiness  and  honor  are  all 
mine ;  and  yet,  I  'm  only  robbing  the  public  while  I 
detain  you. 

Lofty.  Sink  the  public,  madam,  when  the  fair  are 
to  be  attended.  Ah,  could  all  my  hours  be  so  charm- 
ingly devoted !  Sincerely,  do  n't  you  pity  us  poor  crea- 
tures in  affairs  ?  Thus  it  is  eternally ;  solicited  for 
places  here,  teased  for  pensions  there,  and  courted 
everywhere.  I  know  you  pity  me.  Yes,  I  see  you  do. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Excuse  me,  sir,  'Toils  of  empires 
pleasures  are,'  as  Waller  says. 

Lofty.     Waller — Waller;  is  he  of  the  House? 

Mrs.  Croaker.     The  modern  poet  of  that  name,  sir. 

Lofty.  Oh,  a  modern  !  We  men  of  business  despise 
the  moderns !  and  as  for  the  ancients,  we  have  no  time 
to  read  them.  Poetry  is  a  pretty  thing  enough  for  our 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  207 

wives  and  daughters,  but  not  for  us.  Why  now,  here  I 
stand,  that  know  nothing  of  books.  I  say,  madam,  I  know 
nothing  of  books;  and  yet,  I  believe,  upon  a  land-carriage 
fishery,  a  stamp  act,  or  a  jaghire,  I  can  talk  my  two 
hours  without  feeling  the  want  of  them. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  The  world  is  no  stranger  to  Mr.  Lofty 's 
eminence  in  every  capacity. 

Lofty.  I  vow  to  gad,  madam,  you  make  me  blush. 
I'm  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world ;  a  mere  obscure 
gentleman.  To  be  sure,  indeed,  one  or  two  of  the  pres- 
ent ministers  are  pleased  to  represent  me  as  a  formidable 
man.  I  know  they  are  pleased  to  bespatter  me  at  all 
their  little,  dirty  levees.  Yet,  upon  my  soul,  I  wonder 
what  they  see  in  me  to  treat  me  so !  Measures,  not  men, 
have  always  been  my  mark,  and  I  vow,  by  all  that's 
honorable,  my  resentment  has  never  done  the  men,  as 
mere  men,  any  manner  of  harm, —  that  is,  as  mere  men. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What  importance,  and  yet  what  mod- 
esty! 

Lofty.  Oh,  if  you  talk  of  modesty,  madam,  there  I 
own  I'm  accessible  to  praise ;  modesty  is  my  foible ;  it 
was  so  the  Duke  of  Brentford  used  to  say  of  me.  I '  love 
Jack  Lofty,'  he  used  to  say;  'no  man  has  a  finer  knowl- 
edge of  things :  quite  a  man  of  information ;  and  when 
he  speaks  upon  his  legs,  by  the  Lord,  he's  prodigious, — 
he  scouts  them ;  and  yet  all  men  have  their  faults ;  too 
much  modesty  is  his,'  says  his  Grace. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  yet,  I  dare  say,  you  don't  want 
assurance  when  you  come  to  solicit  for  your  friends. 

Lofty.  Oh,  there,  indeed,  I'm  in  bronze.  Apropos ! 
I  have  just  been  mentioning  Miss  Richland's  case  to  a 


208  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

certain  personage ;  we  must  name  uo  names.  When  I 
ask,  I'm  not  to  be  put  off,  madam.  No,  no,  I  take  my 
friend  by  the  button.  A  fine  girl,  sir ;  great  justice  in 
her  case.  A  friend  of  mine.  Borough  interest.  Busi- 
ness must  be  done,  Mr.  Secretary.  I  say,  Mr.  Secre- 
tary, her  business  must  be  done,  sir.  That's  my  way 
madam. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Bless  me !  you  said  all  this  to  the 
Secretary  of  State,  did  you  ? 

Lofty.  I  did  not  say  the  Secretary,  did  I  ?  Well, 
curse  it,  since  you  have  found  me  out,  I  will  not  deny 
it, —  it  was  to  the  Secretary. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  This  was  going  to  the  fountain-head 
at  once,  not  applying  to  the  understrappers,  as  Mr. 
Houeywood  would  have  had  us. 

Lofty.  Honey  wood  !  he  !  he  !  He  was  indeed  a  fine 
solicitor.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  has  just  hap- 
pened to  him  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.    Poor,  dear  man !  no  accident,  I  hope? 

Lofty.  Undone,  madam,  that's  all.  His  creditors 
have  taken  him  into  custody — a  prisoner  in  his  own 
house. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  A  prisoner  in  his  own  house  !  How  ? 
At  this  very  time  ?  I'm  quite  unhappy  for  him. 

Lofty.  Why,  so  am  I.  The  man,  to  be  sure,  was 
immensely  good-natured.  But  then,  I  could  never  find 
that  he  had  anything  in  him. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  His  manner,  to  be  sure,  was  exces- 
sive harmless ;  some,  indeed,  thought  it  a  little  dull. 
For  my  part,  I  always  concealed  my  opinion. 

Lofty.  It  can't  be  concealed,  madam ;  the  man  was 
dull — dull  as  the  last  new  comedy;  a  poor,  impracti- 


THE    GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  209 

cable  creature !  I  tried  once  or  twice  to  know  if  he 
was  fit  for  business ;  but  he  had  scarce  talents  to  be 
groom-porter  to  an  orange-barrow. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  How  differently  does  Miss  Richland 
think  of  him !  For,  I  believe,  with  all  his  faults,  she 
loves  him. 

Lofty.  Loves  him  !  does  she  ?  You  should  cure  her 
of  that  by  all  means.  Let  me  see  ;  what  if  she  were 
sent  to  him  this  instant,  in  his  present  doleful  situation? 
My  life  for  it,  that  works  her  cure.  Distress  is  a  per- 
fect antidote  to  love.  Suppose  we  join  her  in  the 
next  room  ?  Miss  Richland  is  a  fine  girl,  has  a  fine 
fortune,  and  must  not  be  thrown  away.  Upon  my 
honor,  madam,  I  have  a  regard  for  Miss  Richland  ;  and, 
rather  than  she  should  be  thrown  away  I  should  think 
it  no  indignity  to  marry  her  myself.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Leontine. 

Leontine.  And  yet,  trust  me,  Olivia,  I  had  every 
reason  to  expect  Miss  Richland's  refusal,  as  I  did 
everything  in  my  power  to  deserve  it.  Her  indelicacy 
susprises  me. 

Olivia.  Sure,  Leontine,  there 's  nothing  so  indeli- 
cate in  being  sensible  of  your  merit.  If  so,  I  fear  I 
shall  be  the  most  guilty  thing  alive. 

Leontine.  But  you  mistake,  my  dear.  The  same 
attention  I  used  to  advance  my  merit  with  you,  I  prac- 
tised to  lesson  it  with  her.  What  more  could  I  do  ? 

Olivia.  Let  us  now  rather  consider  what  is  to  be 
done.  We  have  both  dissembled  too  long.  I  have 

18* 


210  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

always  been  ashamed  —  I  am  now  quite  weary  of  it 
Sure,  I  could  never  have  undergone  so  much  for  any 
other  but  you. 

Leontine.  And  you  shall  find  my  gratitude  equal  to 
your  kindest  compliance.  Though  our  friends  should 
totally  forsake  us,  Olivia,  we  can  draw  upon  content 
for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune. 

Olivia.  Then  why  should  we  defer  our  scheme  of 
humble  happiness,  when  it  is  now  in  our  power  ?  I 
may  be  the  favorite  of  your  father,  it  is  true ;  but  can 
it  ever  be  thought,  that  his  present  kindness  to  a  sup- 
posed child,  will  continue  to  a  known  deceiver  ? 

Leontine.  I  have  many  reasons  to  believe  it  will. 
As  his  attachments  are  but  few,  they  are  lasting.  His 
own  marriage  was  a  private  one,  as  ours  may  be.  Be- 
sides, I  have  sounded  him  already  at  a  distance,  and 
find  all  his  answers  exactly  to  our  wish.  Nay,  by  an 
expression  or  two  that  dropped  from  him,  I  am  in- 
duced to  think  he  knows  of  this  affair. 

Olivia.  Indeed !  But  that  would  be  a  happiness 
too  great  to  be  expected. 

Leontine.  However  it  be,  I'm  certain  you  have 
power  over  him ;  and  am  persuaded,  if  you  informed 
him  of  our  situation,  that  he  would  be  disposed  to  par- 
don it. 

Olivia.  You  had  equal  expectations,  Leontine,  from 
your  last  scheme  with  Miss  Richland,  which  you  find 
has  succeeded  most  wretchedly. 

Leontine.  And  that 's  the  best  reason  for  trying  an- 
other. 

Olivia.     If  it  must  be  so,  I  submit. 

Leontine.      As  we  could  wish,  he  comes  this  wav 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  211 

Now,  my  dearest  Olivia,  be  resolute.  I'll  just  retire 
within  hearing,  to  come  in  at  a  proper  time,  either  to 
share  your  danger,  or  confirm  your  victory.  [Exit 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Yes,  I  must  forgive  her ;  and  yet  not  too 
easily,  neither.  It  will  be  proper  to  keep  up  the  deco- 
rums of  resentment  a  little,  if  it  be  only  to  impress  her 
with  an  idea  of  my  authority. 

Olivia.  How  I  tremble  to  approach  him  !  —  Might 
I  presume,  sir  —  if  I  interrupt  you 

Croaker.  No,  child,  where  I  have  an  affection,  it 
is  not  a  little  thing  can  interrupt  me.  Affection  gets 
over  little  things. 

Olivia.  Sir,  you're  too  kind.  I  'm  sensible  how  ill 
I  deserve  this  partiality ;  yet,  Heaven  knows,  there  is 
nothing  I  would  not  do  to  gain  it. 

Croaker.  And  you  have  but  too  well  succeeded,  you 
little  hussy,  you.  With  those  endearing  ways  of  yours, 
on  my  conscience,  I  could  be  brought  to  forgive  any- 
thing, unless  it  were  a  very  great  offence  indeed. 

Olivia.  But  mine  is  such  an  offence  —  When  you 
know  my  guilt  —  Yes,  you  shall  know  it,  though  I  feel 
the  greatest  pain  in  the  confession. 

Croaker.  Why,  then,  if  it  be  so  very  great  a  pain, 
you  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble  ;  for  I  know  every 
syllable  of  the  matter  before  you  begin. 

Olivia.     Indeed !  then  I  'm  undone. 

Croaker.  Ay,  miss,  you  wanted  to  steal  a  match, 
without  letting  me  know  it,  did  you !  But  I  'm  not 
worth  being  consulted,  I  suppose,  when  there 's  to  be 


212  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN 

a  marriage  in  my  own  family.  No,  I  'in  to  have  no 
hand  in  the  disposal  of  my  own  children.  No,  I'm 
nobody.  I'm  to  be  a  mere  article  of  family  lumber; 
a  piece  of  cracked  china,  to  be  stuck  up  in  a  corner. 

Olivia.  Dear  sir,  nothing  but  the  dread  of  your  au- 
thority could  induce  us  to  conceal  it  from  you. 

Croaker.  No,  no,  my  consequence  is  no  more  ;  I  'm 
as  little  minded  as  a  dead  Russian  in  winter,  just  stuck 
up  with  a  pipe  in  its  mouth  till  there  comes  a  thaw 
—  It  goes  to  my  heart  to  vex  her.  (Aside. 

Olivia.  I  was  prepared,  sir,  for  your  anger,  and 
despaired  of  pardon,  even  while  I  presumed  to  ask  it. 
But  your  severity  shall  never  abate  my  affection,  as 
my  punishment  is  but  justice. 

Croaker.  And  yet  you  should  not  despair,  neither, 
Livy.  We  ought  to  hope  all  for  the  best. 

Olivia.  And  do  you  permit  me  to  hope,  sir  ?  Can 
I  ever  expect  to  be  forgiven  ?  But  hope  has  too  long 
deceived  me. 

Croaker.  Why  then,  child,  it  shan't  deceive  you 
now,  for  I  forgive  you  this  very  moment ;  I  forgive 
you  all !  and  now  you  are  indeed  my  daughter. 

Olivia.    Oh  transport!  this  kindness  overpowers  me. 

Croaker.  I  was  always  against  severity  to  our  chil- 
dren. We  have  been  young  and  giddy  ourselves,  and  we 
can't  expect  boys  and  girls  to  be  old  before  their  tune. 

Olivia.  What  generosity !  But  can  you  forget  the 
many  falsehoods,  the  dissimulation 

Croaker.  You  did  indeed  dissemble,  you  urchin, 
you  ;  but  where  's  the  girl  that  won't  dissemble  for  a 
husband  ?  My  wife  and  I  had  never  been  married,  if 
we  had  not  dissembled  a  little  beforehand. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  213 

Olivia.  It  shall  be  my  future  care  never  to  put 
such  generosity  to  a  second  trial.  And  as  for  the  part- 
ner of  my  offence  and  folly,  from  his  native  honor, 
and  the  just  sense  he  has  of  his  duty,  I  can  answer  for 

him  that 

Enter  Leontine. 

Leontine.  Permit  him  thus  to  answer  for  himself. 
(Kneeling.)  Thus,  sir,  let  me  speak  my  gratitude  for 
this  unmerited  forgiveness.  Yes,  sir,  this  even  exceeds 
all  your  former  tenderness :  I  now  can  boast  the  most 
indulgent  of  fathers.  The  life  he  gave,  compared  to 
this,  was  but  a  trifling  blessing. 

Croaker.  And,  good  sir,  who  sent  for  you,  with  that 
fine  tragedy  face,  and  nourishing  manner  ?  I  do  n't 
know  what  we  have  to  do  with  your  gratitude  upon 
this  occasion. 

Leontine.  How,  sir !  is  it  possible  to  be  silent,  when 
so  much  obliged  ?  Would  you  refuse  me  the  pleasure 
of  being  grateful  ?  of  adding  my  thanks  to  my  Olivia's  ? 
of  sharing  in  the  transports  that  you  have  thus  occa- 
sioned ? 

Croaker.  Lord,  sir,  we  can  be  happy  enough  with- 
out your  coming  in  to  make  up  the  party.  I  do  n't 
know  what's  the  matter  with  the  boy  all  this  day ;  he  has 
got  into  such  a  rhodomontade  manner  all  this  morning ! 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  I  that  have  so  large  a  part  in  the 
benefit,  is  it  not  my  duty  to  show  my  joy  ?  Is  the  be- 
ing admitted  to  your  favor  so  slight  an  obligation  ?  Is 
the  happiness  of  marrying  Olivia  so  small  a  blessing? 

Croaker.  Marrying  Olivia !  marrying  Olivia  !  marry- 
ing his  own  sister !  Sure  the  boy  is  out  of  his  senses, 
His  own  sister! 


214  THE   GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Leontine.     My  sister ! 

Olivia.     Sister !  how  have  I  been  mistaken !  [Aside. 

Leontine.     Some  cursed  mistake  in  all  this  I  find. 

[Aside. 

Croaker.  What  does  the  booby  mean  ?  or  has  he  any 
meaning  ?  Eh,  what  do  you  mean,  you  blockhead,  you  ?. 

Leontine.  Mean,  sir?  —  why,  sir  —  only  when  my 
sister  is  to  be  married,  that  I  have  the  pleasure  of  mar. 
rying  her,  sir, —  that  is,  of  giving  her  away,  sir, —  I 
have  made  a  point  of  it. 

Croaker.  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  Give  her  away.  You 
have  made  a  point  of  it  ?  Then  you  had  as  good  make 
a  point  of  first  giving  away  yourself,  as  I'm  going  to 
prepare  the  writings  between  you  and  Miss  Richland 
this  very  minute.  What  a  fuss  is  here  about  nothing ! 
Why  what 's  the  matter  now  ?  I  thought  I  had  made 
you  at  least  as  happy  as  you  could  wish. 

Olivia.     Oh,  yes,  sir ;  very  happy. 

Croaker.    Do  you  foresee  any  thing,  child  ?  You  look 
as  if  you  did.    I  think  if  any  thing  was  to  be  foreseen, 
I  have  as  sharp  a  look-out  as  another ;  and  yet  I  fore- 
see nothing.  [Exit. 
Leontine  and  Olivia. 

Olivia.     What  can  it  mean  ? 

Leontine.  He  knows  something,  and  yet,  for  my  life, 
I  can't  tell  what. 

Olivia.  It  can't  be  the  connection  between  us,  I'm 
pretty  certain. 

Leontine.  Whatever  it  be,  my  dearest,  I'm  resolved 
to  put  it  out  of  fortune's  power  to  repeat  our  mortifi- 
cation. I  '11  haste  and  prepare  for  our  journey  to  Scot- 


THE    GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  215 

land,  this  very  evening.  My  friend  Honeywood  has 
promised  me  his  advice  and  assistance.  I  '11  go  to  him 
and  repose  our  distresses  on  his  friendly  bosom ;  and  I 
know  so  much  of  his  honest  heart,  that  if  he  can 't  re- 
lieve our  uneasiness,  he  will  at  least  share  them. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  THIRD. 

-Scene.— YOUNG  HONEYWOOD'S  HOUSE. 
Bailiff,  Honeywood,  Follower. 

Bailiff.  Lookye,  sir,  I  have  arrested  as  good  men 
as  you  in  my  time  —  no  disparagement  of  you  neither 
—  men  that  would  go  forty  guineas  on  a  game  of  crib- 
bage.  I  challenge  the  town  to  show  a  man  in  more 
genteeler  practice  than  myself. 

Honeywood.  Without  all  question,  Mr. I  for- 
get your  name,  sir. 

Bailiff.  How  can  you  forget  what  you  never  knew? 
he!  he!  he! 

Honeywood.     May  I  beg  leave  to  ask  your  name  ? 

Bailiff.     Yes,  you  may. 

Honeywood.     Then,  pray  sir,  what  is  your  name  ? 

Bailiff.  That  I  didn't  promise  to  tell  you. —  He  I 
he !  he  !  — A  joke  breaks  no  bones,  as  we  say  among 
us  that  practise  the  law. 

Honeywood.  You  may  have  reason  for  keeping  it  a 
secret,  perhaps  ? 

Bailiff.  The  law  does  nothing  without  reason.  I'm 
ashamed  to  tell  my  name  to  no  man;  sir.  If  you  can 


216  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

show  cause,  as  why,  upon  a  special  capus,  that  I 
should  prove  my  name  —  But,  come,  Timothy  Twitch 
is  my  name.  And,  now  you  know  my  name,  what  have 
you  to  say  to  that  ? 

Honeywood.  Nothing  in  the  world,  good  Mr.  Twitch, 
but  that  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  that's  all. 

Bailiff.  Ay,  favors  are  more  easily  asked  than 
granted,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law.  I 
have  taken  an  oath  against  granting  favors.  Would 
you  have  me  perjure  myself? 

Honeywood.  But  my  request  will  come  recommend- 
ed in  so  strong  a  manner,  as,  I  believe,  you  '11  have  no 
scruple  (pulling  out  his  purse.)  The  thing  is  only  this : 
I  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  discharge  this  trifle  in  two  or 
three  days  at  farthest ;  but  as  I  would  not  have  the 
affair  known  for  the  world,  I  have  thoughts  of  keeping 
you,  and  your  good  friend  here,  about  inc.  till  the  debt 
is  discharged ;  for  which  I  shall  be  properly  grateful. 

Bailiff.  Oh  !  that's  another  inaxum,  and  altogether 
within  my  oath.  For  certain,  if  an  honest  man  is  to 
get  any  thing  by  a  thing,  there's  no  reason  why  all 
things  should  not  be  done  in  civility. 

Honeywood.  Doubtless,  all  trades  must  live,  Mr. 
Twitch ;  and  yours  is  a  necessary  one.  [  Gives  him  money. 

Bailiff.  Oh  !  your  honor ;  I  hope  your  honor  takes 
nothing  amiss  as  I  does,  as  I  does  nothing  but  my  duty 
in  so  doing.  I  'm  sure  no  man  can  say  I  ever  give  a 
gentleman,  that  was  a  gentleman,  ill  usage.  If  I  saw 
that  a  gentleman  was  a  gentleman,  I  have  taken  money 
not  to  see  him  for  ten  weeks  together. 

Honeywood.     Tenderness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  217 

Bailiff.  Ay,  sir,  it's  a  perfect  treasure.  I  love  to 
see  a  gentleman  with  a  tender  heart.  I  don't  know, 
but  I  think  I  have  a  tender  heart  myself.  If  all  that 
I  have  lost  by  my  heart  was  put  together,  it  would 
make  a  —  but  no  matter  for  that. 

Honeywood.  Don't  account  it  lost,  Mr.  Twitch. 
The  ingratitude  of  the  world  can  never  deprive  us  of 
the  conscious  happiness  of  having  acted  with  humanity 
ourselves. 

Bailiff.  Humanity,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  It's  better 
than  gold.  I  love  humanity.  People  may  say,  that 
we  in  our  way  have  no  humanity ;  but  I'll  show  you 
my  humanity  this  moment.  There's  my  follower  here, 
little  Flanigan,  with  a  wife  and  four  children  —  a 
guinea  or  two  would  be  more  to  him,  than  twice  as 
much  to  another.  Now,  as  I  can't  show  him  an  hu- 
manity myself,  I  must  beg  leave  you'll  do  it  for  me. 

Honeywood.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Twitch,  yours  is  a 
most  powerful  recommendation. 

[  Giving  money  to  the  follower. 

Bailiff.     Sir,  you  're  a  gentleman.    I  see  you  know 
what  to  do  with  your  money.     But,  to  business ;  we 
are  to  be  with  you  here  as  your  friends,  I  suppose 
But  set  in  case  company  comes.     Little  Flanigan  here 
to  be  sure,  has  a  good  face  —  a  very  good  face ;    b«K 
then,  he  is  a  little  seedy,  as  we  say  among  us  that  prao 
tise  the  law, —  not  well  in  clothes.    Smoke  the  pockev 
holes. 

Honeywood.  Well,  that  shall  be  remedied  without 
delay. 

19 


218  THE    GOOD-XATURED    MAN 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.     Sir,  Miss  Richland  is  below. 

Honeywood.  How  unluckey  !  Detain  her  a  moment. 
We  must  improve  my  good  friend  little  Mr.  Flanigan's 
appearance  first.  Here,  let  Mr.  Flanigan  have  a  suit 
of  my  clothes  —  quick  —  the  brown  and  silver  —  Do 
you  hear  ? 

Servant.  That  your  honor  gave  away  to  the  begging 
gentleman  that  makes  verses,  because  it  was  as  good 
as  new. 

Honeywood.     The  white  and  gold  then. 

Servant.  That,  your  honor,  I  made  bold  to  sell,  be- 
cause it  was  good  for  nothing. 

Honeywood.  Well,  the  first  that  comes  to  hand  then 
—  the  blue  and  gold.  I  believe  Mr.  Flauigan  would 
look  best  in  blue.  [Exit  Flanigan. 

Bailiff.  Rabbit  me,  but  little  Flanigan  will  look 
well  in  anything.  Ah,  if  your  honor  knew  that  bit  of 
flesh  as  well  as  I  do,  you'd  be  perfectly  in  love  with 
him.  There 's  not  a  prettier  scout  in  the  four  counties 
after  a  shy-cock  than  he  :  scents  like  a  hound — sticks 
like  a  weasal.  He  was  master  of  the  ceremonies  to 
the  black  Queen  of  Morocco,  when  I  took  him  to  fol- 
low me.  (Re-enter  Flanigan.)  Heh !  ecod,  I  think  he 
looks  so  well,  that  I  don't  care  if  I  have  a  suit  from 
the  same  place  for  myself. 

Honeywood.  Well,  well,  I  hear  the  lady  coming. 
Dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  beg  you  '11  give  your  friend  direc- 
tions not  to  speak.  As  for  yourself,  I  know  you  will 
say  nothing  without  being  directed. 

Bailiff.     Never  you  lear  me  ;  I  '11  show  the  lady  I 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  219 

have  something  to  say  for  myself  as  well  as  another. 
One  man  has  one  way  of  talking,  another  man  has  an- 
other, that's  all  the  difference  between  them. 

Enter  Miss  Richland  and  Garnet. 

Miss  Richland.  You  '11  be  surprised,  sir,  with  this 
visit.  But  you  know  I'm  yet  to  thank  you  for  choos- 
ing my  little  library. 

Honeywood.  Thanks,  madam,  are*  unnecessary ;  as 
it  was  I  that  was  obliged  by  your  commands.  Chairs 
here.  Two  of  my  very  good  friends,  Mr.  Twitch  and 
Mr.  Flanigan.  Pray,  gentlemen,  sit  without  ceremony. 

Miss  Richland.  Who  can  these  odd-looking  men  be  ? 
I  fear  it  is  as  I  was  informed.  It  must  be  so.  \_Aside. 

Bailiff.  (After  a  pause.)  Pretty  weather;  very 
pretty  weather  for  the  time  of  the  year,  madam. 

Follower.     Very  good  circuit  weather  in  the  country. 

Honeywood.  You  officers  are  generally  favoritts 
among  the  ladies.  My  friends,  madam,  have  been  upon 
very  disagreeable  duty,  I  assure  you.  The  fair  should, 
in  some  measure,  recompense  the  toils  of  the  brave. 

Miss  Richland.  Our  officers  do  indeed  deserve  every 
favor.  The  gentlemen  are  in  the  marine  service,  I  pre- 
sume, sir  ? 

Honeywood.  Why,  madam,  they  do  —  occasionally 
serve  in  the  fleet,  madam.  A  dangerous  service ! 

Miss  Richland.  I  'm  told  so.  And  I  own  it  has 
often  surprised  me,  that  while  we  have  had  so  many  in- 
stances of  bravery  there,  we  have  had  so  few  of  wit  at 
home  to  praise  it. 

Honeywood.    I  grant,  madam,  that  our  poets  have  not 


220  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

written  as  our  sailors  have  fought ;  but  they  have  done 
all  they  could,  and  Hawke  or  Amherst  could  do  no  more. 

Miss  Richland.  I  'm  quite  displeased  when  I  see  a 
fine  subject  spoiled  by  a  dull  writer. 

Honeywood.  We  should  not  be  so  severe  against 
dull  writers,  madam.  It  is  ten  to  one  but  the  dullest 
writer  exceeds  the  most  rigid  French  critic  who  pre- 
sumes to  despise  him. 

Follower.  Damn  the  French,  the  parle  vous,  and 
all  that  belongs  to  them  J 

Miss  Richland.     Sir! 

Honeywood.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  honest  Mr.  Flanigan.  A 
true  English  officer,  madam  ;  he 's  not  contented  with 
beating  the  French,  but  he  will  scold  them  too. 

Miss  Richland.  Yet,  Mr.  Honeywood,  this  does  not 
convince  me  but  that  severity  in  criticism  is  necessary. 
It  was  our  first  adopting  the  severity  of  French  taste, 
that  has  brought  them  in  turn  to  taste  us. 

Bailiff".  Taste  us !  By  the  Lord,  madam,  they  de- 
vour us.  Give  Mounseers  but  a  taste,  and  I'll  be 
damn'd  but  they  come  in  for  a  bellyfull. 

Miss  Richland.     Very  extraordinary  this  ! 

Follower.  But  very  true.  What  makes  the  bread 
rising  ?  the  parle  vous  that  devour  us.  What  makes 
the  mutton  fivepence  a  pound  ?  the  parle  vous  that  eat 
it  up.  What  makes  the  beer  threepence-halfpenny  a 
pot? 

Honeywood.  Ah !  the  vulgar  rogues ;  all  will  be  out 
(Aside.)  Right,  gentlemen,  very  right,  upon  my  word, 
and  quite  to  the  purpose.  They  draw  a  parallel,  madam, 
between  the  mental  taste  and  that  of  our  senses.  W« 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  221 

are  injured  as  much  by  the  French  severity  in  the  one,  as 
by  French  rapacity  in  the  other.  That 's  their  meaning. 

Miss  Richland.  Though  I  do  n't  see  the  force  of  the 
parallel,  yet  I'll  own,  that  we  should  sometimes  par- 
don books,  as  we  do  our  friends,  that  have  now  and 
then  agreeable  absurdities  to  recommend  them. 

Bailiff.  That's  all  my  eye.  The  King  only  can 
pardon,  as  the  law  says  :  for,  set  in  case 

Honeywood.  I  'm  quite  of  your  opinion,  sir.  I  see 
the  whole  drift  of  your  argument.  Yes,  certainly,  our 
presuming  to  pardon  any  work,  is  arrogating  a  power 
that  belongs  to  another.  If  all  have  power  to  condemn 
what  writer  can  be  free  ? 

Bailiff.  By  his  habus  corpus.  His  habus  corpus 
can  set  him  free  at  any  time :  for,  set  in  case 

Honeywood.  I  'm  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  hint. 
If,  madam,  as  my  friend  observes,  our  laws  are  so  care- 
ful of  a  gentlemen's  person,  sure  we  ought  to  be  equal- 
ly careful  of  his  dearer  part,  his  fame. 

Follower.  Ay,  but  if  so  be  a  man's  nabb'd,  you 
know 

Honeywood.  Mr.  Flanigan,  if  you  spoke  forever, 
you  could  not  improve  the  last  observation.  For  my 
own  part,  I  think  it  conclusive. 

Bailiff.     As  for  the  matter  of  that,  mayhap 

Honeywood.  Nay,  sir,  give  me  leave,  in  this  instance, 
to  be  positive.  For  where  is  the  necessity  of  census 
ing  works  without  genius,  which  must  shortly  sink  oi 
themselves?  what  is  it,  but  aiming  an  unnecessary  bkw 
against  a  victim  already  under  the  hands  of  justice  ? 

Bailiff.     Justice!  Oh,  by  the  elevens!   if  you  talfc 
19* 


222  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

about  justice,  I  think  I  am  at  home  there:  for,  in  a 
course  of  law 

Honeywood.  My  dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  discern  what 
you  'd  be  at,  perfectly ;  and  I  believe  the  lady  must  be 
sensible  of  the  art  with  which  it  is  introduced.  I  suppose 
you  perceive  the  meaning,  madam,  of  his  course  of  law. 

Miss  Richland.  I  protest,  sir,  I  do  not.  I  perceive 
only  that  you  answer  one  gentleman  before  he  has 
finished,  and  the  other  before  he  has  well  begun. 

Bailiff".  Madam,  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I 
will  make  the  matter  out.  This  here  question  is  about 
severity,  and  justice,  and  pardon,  and  the  like  of  they. 
Now,  to  explain  the  thing 

Honeywood.    Oh  !  curse  your  explanations !   [Asid*. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Mr.  Leontine,  sir,  below,  desires  to  speak 
with  you  upon  earnest  business. 

Honeywood.  That 's  lucky.  (Aside.)  Dear  madam 
you  '11  excuse  me  and  my  good  friends  here,  for  a  few 
minutes.  There  are  books,  madam,  to  amuse  you. 
Come,  gentlemen,  you  know  I  make  no  ceremony  with 
such  friends.  After  you,  sir.  Excuse  me.  Well,  if 
I  must.  But  I  know  your  natural  politeness. 

Bailiff'.     Before  and  behind,  you  know. 

Follower.  Ay,  ay,  before  and  behind,  before  and  be- 
hind. ^Exeunt  Honeywood,  Bailiff,  and  Follower. 

Miss  Richland.     What  can  all  this  mean,  Garnet  ? 

Garnet.  Mean,  madam  !  why,  what  should  it  mean, 
but  what  Mr.  Lofty  sent  you  here  to  see  ?  These  peo- 
ple he  calls  officers,  are  officers  sure  enough :  sheriff's 
officers  —  bailiffs,  madam. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  223 

Miss  Richland.  Ay,  it  is  certainly  so.  Well,  though 
his  perplexities  are  far  from  giving  me  pleasure,  yet  I 
own  there  is  something  very  ridiculous  in  them,  and  a 
just  punishment  for  his  dissimulation. 

Garnet.  And  so  they  are :  but  I  wonder,  madam, 
that  the  lawyer  you  just  employed  to  pay  his  debts  and 
set  him  free,  has  not  done  it  by  this  time.  He  ought 
at  least  to  have  been  here  before  now.  But  lawyers 
are  always  more  ready  to  get  a  man  into  troubles  than 
out  of  them. 

Enter  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  For  Miss  Richland  to  undertake  set- 
ting him  free,  I  own,  was  quite  unexpected.  It  has  to- 
tally unhinged  my  schemes  to  reclaim  him.  Yet  it 
gives  me  pleasure  to  find,  that  among  a  number  of  worth- 
less friendships,  he  has  made  one  acquisition  of  real 
value ;  for  there  must  be  some  softer  passion  on  her 
side,  that  prompts  this  generosity.  Ha !  here  before 
me  ?  I'll  endeavor  to  sound  her  affections.  Madam,  as 
I  am  the  person  that  have  had  some  demands  upon  the 
gentleman  of  this  house,  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  if, 
before  I  enlarged  him,  I  wanted  to  see  yourself. 

Miss  Richland.  The  precaution  was  very  unnecessa- 
ry, sir.  I  suppose  your  wants  were  only  such  as  my 
agent  had  power  to  see  yourself. 

Sir  William.  Partly,  madam.  But  I  was  also  will- 
ing you  should  be  fully  apprized  of  the  character  of 
the  gentleman  you  intended  to  serve. 

Miss  Richland.  It  must  come,  sir,  with  a  very  ill 
grace  from  you.  To  censure  it,  after  what  you  have 
done,  would  look  like  malice ;  and  to  speak  favorably 


224  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

of  a  character  you  have  oppressed,  would  be  impeach- 
ing your  own.  And  sure  his  tenderness,  his  human- 
ity, his  universal  friendship,  may  atone  for  many  faults. 

Sir  WiUiam.  That  friendship,  madam,  which  is  ex- 
erted in  too  wide  a  sphere,  becomes  totally  useless. 
Our  bounty,  like  a  drop  of  water,  disappears  when  dif- 
fused too  widely.  They  wli<>  pretend  most  to  this  uni- 
versal benevolence,  are  either  deceivers  or  dupes, — 
men  who  desire  to  cover  their  private  ill-nature  by  a 
pretended  regard  for  all,  or  men,  who,  reasoning  them- 
selves into  false  feelings,  are  more  earnest  in  pursuit 
of  splendid,  than  of  useful,  virtues. 

Miss  Richland.  I  am  surprised,  sir,  to  hear  one, 
who  has  probably  been  a  gainer  by  the  folly  of  others, 
so  severe  in  his  censure  of  it. 

Sir  William.  Whatever  I  have  gained  by  folly,  mad- 
am, you  see  I  am  willing  to  prevent  your  losing  by  it. 

Miss  Richland.  Your  cares  for  me,  sir,  are  unne- 
cessary ;  I  always  suspect  those  services  which  are  de- 
nied where  they  are  wanted,  and  offered,  perhaps,  in 
hopes  of  a  refusal.  No,  sir,  my  directions  have  been 
given,  and  I  insist  upon  their  being  complied  with. 

Sir  WiUiam.  Thou  amiable  woman !  I  can  no  long- 
er contain  the  expressions  of  my  gratitude  —  my  pleas- 
ure. You  see  before  you  one  who  has  been  equally 
careful  of  his  interest ;  one  who  has  for  some  time  been 
»  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies,  and  only  punished 
in  hopes  to  reclaim  them, —  his  uncle ! 

Mss  Richland.  Sir  William  .  Honeywood !  You 
amaze  me.  How  shall  I  conceal  my  confusion?  I 
fear,  sir,  you  '11  think  I  have  been  too  forward  in  my 
services.  I  confess  I 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  225 

Sir  William.  Don't  make  any  apologies,  madam. 
I  only  find  myself  unable  to  repay  the  obligation.  And 
yet,  I  have  been  trying  my  interest  of  late  to  serve 
you.  Having  learned,  madam,  that  you  had  some  de- 
mands upon  Government,  I  have,  though  unasked,  been 
your  solicitor  there. 

Miss  Richland.  Sir,  I'm  infinitely  obliged  to  your 
intentions.  But  my  guardian  has  employed  another 
gentlemen,  who  assures  him  of  success. 

Sir  William.  Who,  the  important  little  man  that 
visits  here  ?  Trust  me,  madam,  he 's  quite  contempti- 
ble among  men  in  power,  and  utterly  unable  to  serve 
you.  Mr.  Lofty 's  promises  are  much  better  known  to 
people  of  fashion  than  his  person,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  ftichland.  How  have  we  been  deceived !  As 
sure  as  can  be,  here  he  comes. 

Sir  William.  Does  he?  Remember  I'm  to  con- 
tinue unknown.  My  return  to  England  has  not  as  yet 
Veen  made  public.  With  what  impudence  he  enters! 

Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Let  the  chariot  —  let  my  chariot  drive  off ; 
i  '11  visit  to  his  Grace's  in  a  chair.  Miss  Richland  here 
before  me !  Punctual  as  usual,  to  the  calls  of  humanity. 
I  'm  very  sorry,  madam,  things  of  this  kind  should  hap- 
pen, especially  to  a  man  I  have  shown  everywhere, 
and  carried  amongst  us  as  a  particular  acquaintance. 

Miss  Richland.  I  find,  sir,  you  have  the  art  of 
making  the  misfortunes  of  others  your  own. 

Lofty.     My  dear  madam,  what  can  a  private  man 


226  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

like  me  do  ?  One  man  can't  do  everything ;  and  then  \ 
do  so  much  in  this  way  every  day.  Let  me  see — some- 
thing considerable  might  be  done  for  him  by  subscrip- 
tion ;  it  could  not  fail  if  I  carried  the  list.  I'll  under- 
take to  set  down  a  brace  of  dukes,  two  dozen  lords, 
and  half  the  Lower  house,  at  my  own  peril. 

Sir  William.  And,  after  all,  it's  more  than  proba- 
ble, sir,  he  might  reject  the  offer  of  such  powerful  pat- 
ronage. 

Lofty.  Then,  madam,  what  can  we  do  ?  You  know 
I  never  make  promises.  In  truth,  I  once  or  twice  tried 
to  do  something  with  him  in  the  way  of  business ;  but 
as  I  often  told  his  uncle,  Sir  William  Honeywood,  the 
man  was  impracticable. 

Sir  William.  His  uncle !  then  that  gentleman,  I 
suppose,  is  a  particular  friend  of  yours. 

Lofty.  Meaning  me,  sir?  Yes,  madam,  as  I  often 
said,  My  dear  Sir  William,  your  are  sensible  I  would  do 
anything,  as  far  as  my  poor  interest  goes,  to  serve 
your  family  :  but  what  can  be  done  ?  there 's  no  pro- 
curing first-rate  places  for  ninth-rate  abilities. 

Miss  Richland.  I  have  heard  of  Sir  William  Hon- 
eywood ;  he 's  abroad  in  employment :  he  confided  in 
your  judgment,  I  suppose  ? 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  madam,  I  believe  Sir  William 
nad  some  reason  to  confide  in  my  judgment  —  one  lit- 
tle reason,  perhaps. 

Miss  Richland.     Pray,  sir,  what  was  it  ? 

Lofty.  Why,  madam, —  but  let  it  go  no  farther—* 
it  was  I  procured  him  his  place. 

Sir  William.     Did  you.  sir  ? 


THE    GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  227 

Lofty.     Either  you  or  I,  sir  ? 

Miss  Richland.  This,  Mr.  Lofty,  was  very  kind  in- 
deed. 

Lofty.  I  did  love  him,  to  be  sure ;  he  had  somo 
amusing  qualities  ;  no  man  was  fitter  to  be  a  toast  mas- 
ter to  a  club,  or  had  a  better  head. 

Miss  Richland.     A  better  head  ? 

Lofty.  Ay,  at  a  bottle.  To  be  sure  he  was  as  dull 
as  a  choice  spirit ;  but  hang  it,  he  was  grateful,  very 
grateful ;  and  gratitude  hides  a  multitude  of  faults. 

Sir  William.  He  might  have  reason,  perhaps.  His 
place  is  pretty  considerable,  I'm  told. 

Lofty.  A  trifle,  a  mere  trifle  among  us  men  of  busi- 
ness. The  truth  is,  he  wanted  dignity  to  fill  up  a  greater. 

Sir  William.  Dignity  of  person,  do  you  mean,  sir? 
I  'm  told  he  's  much  about  my  size  and  figure,  sir  ? 

Lofty.  Ay,  tall  enough  for  a  marching  regiment ; 
but  then  he  wanted  a  something  —  a  consequence  of 
form  —  a  kind  of  a  —  I  believe  the  lady  perceives  my 
meaning. 

Miss  Richland.  Oh,  perfectly !  you  courtiers  can 
do  anything,  I  see. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  all  this  is  but  a  mere  ex- 
change ;  we  do  greater  things  for  one  another  every 
day.  Why,  as  thus,  now:  Let  me  suppose  you  the 
First  Lord  of  the  Treasury  ;  you  have  an  employment 
m  you  that  I  want  —  I  have  a  place  in  me  that  you 
want ;  do  me  here,  do  you  there :  interest  of  both  sides, 
few  words,  flat,  done  and  done,  and  it's  over. 

Sir  William.  A  thought  strikes  me.  (Aside.)  Now 
you  mention  Sir  William  Honeywood,  madam,  and  as 


228      .  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

he  seems,  sir,  an  acquaintance  of  yours,  you'll  be  glad 
to  hear  he  is  arrived  from  Italy  :  I  had  it  from  a  friend 
who  knows  him  as  well  as  he  does  me,  and  you  may 
depend  on  my  information. 

Lofty.  (Aside.)  The  devil  he  is !  If  I  had  known 
that,  we  should  not  have  been  quite  so  well  acquainted. 

Sir  William.  He  is  certainly  returned  ;  and  as  this 
gentleman  is  a  friend  of  yours,  he  can  be  of  signal  ser- 
vice to  us,  by  introducing  me  to  him  :  there  are  some 
papers  relative  to  your  affairs  that  require  despatch, 
and  his  inspection. 

Miss  Richland.  This  gentleman,  Mr.  Lofty,  is  a 
person  employed  in  my  affairs — I  know  you'll  serve  us. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  I  live  but  to  serve  you. 
Sir  William  shall  even  wait  upon  him,  if  you  think 
proper  to  command  it. 

Sir  William.     That  would  be  quite  unnecessary. 

•Lofty.  Well,  we  must  introduce  you  then.  Call 
upon  me — let  me  see  —  ay,  in  two  days. 

Sir  William.  Now,  or  the  opportunity  will  be  lost 
forever. 

Lofty.  Well,  if  it  must  be  now,  now  let  it  be ;  but 
damn  it,  that 's  unfortunate :  My  Lord  Grig's  cursed 
Pensacola  business  comes  on  this  very  hour,  and  I'm 
engaged  to  attend  —  another  time 

Sir  William.     A  short  letter  to  Sir  William  will  do. 

Lofiy.  You  shall  have  it ;  yet  in  my  opinion,  a 
letter  is  a  very  bad  way  of  going  to  work ;  face  to  face 
that 's  my  way. 

Sir  William.     The  letter,  sir,  will  do  quite  as  well. 

Lofty.     Zounds  !  sir,  do  you  pretend  to  direct  me  ? 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  229 

direct  me  in  the  business  of  office  ?  Do  you  know  me, 
sir?  who  am  I? 

Miss  Richland.  Dear  Mr.  Lofty,  this  request  is  not 
so  much  his  as  mine  ;  if  my  commands  — —  but  you 
despise  my  power. 

Lofty.  Delicate  creature  !  — your  commands  could 
even  control  a  debate  at  midnight :  to  a  power  so  con- 
stitutional, I  am  all  obedience  and  tranquility.  He 
shall  have  a  letter  :  where  is  my  secretary  ?  Dubardieu. 
And  yet,  I  protest,  I  do  n't  like  this  way  of  doing  busi- 
ness. I  think  if  I  first  spoke  to  Sir  William — but  you 
will  have  it  so.  [Exit  with  Miss  Richland. 

Sir  William.  (Alone.)  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  This  too  is 
one  of  my  nephew's  hopeful  associates.  O  vanity !  thou 
constant  deceiver,  how  do  all  thy  efforts  to  exalt  serve 
but  to  sink  us !  Thy  false  colorings,  like  those  em- 
ployed to  heighten  beauty,  only  seem  to  mend  that 
bloom  which  they  contribute  to  destroy.  I  'm  not  dis- 
pleased at  this  interview  ;  exposing  this  fellow's  impu- 
dence to  the  contempt  it  deserves,  may  be  of  use  to  my 
design;  at  least,  if  he  can  reflect,  it  will  be  of  use  to 
himself.  (Enter  Jarvis.)  How  now,  Jarvis,  where 's 
your  master,  my  nephew  ? 

Jarvis.  At  his  wit's  end,  I  believe  :  he's  scarce  got- 
ten out  of  one  scrape,  but  he  's  running  his  head  into 
another. 

Sir  William.     How  so  ? 

Jarvis.  The  house  has  but  just  been  cleared  of  the 
bailiffs,  and  now  he's  again  engaging,  tooth  and  nail, 
in  assisting  old  Croaker's  son  to  patch  up  a  clandes- 
tine match  with  the  young  lady  that  passes  in  the 
nouse  for  his  sister.  20 


230  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Sir  William.     Ever  busy  to  serve  others. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  anybody  but  himself.  The  young 
couple,  it  seems,  are  just  setting  out  for  Scotland  ;  and 
he  supplies  them  with  money  for  the  journey. 

Sir  William.  Money !  how  is  he  able  to  supply 
others  who  has  scarce  any  for  himself  ? 

Jarvis.  Why,  there  it  is :  he  has  no  money,  that's 
true,  but  .then,  as  he  never  said  No  to  any  request  in 
his  life,  he  has  given  them  a  bill,  drawn  by  a  friend  of 
his  upon  a  merchant  in  the  city,  which  I  am  to  get 
changed ;  for  you  must  know  that  I  am  to  go  with  them 
to  Scotland  myself. 

Sir  William.     How? 

Jarvis.  It  seems  the  young  gentleman  is  obliged  to 
take  a  different  road  from  his  mistress,  as  he  is  to  call 
upon  an  uncle  of  his  that  lives  out  of  the  way,  in  order 
to  prepare  a  place  for  their  reception  when  they  return  ; 
so  they  have  borrowed  me  from  my  master,  as  the 
properest  person  to  attend  the  young  lady  to  town. 

Sir  William.  To  the  land  of  matrimony  !  A  pleas' 
ant  journey,  Jarvis. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  but  I  'm  only  to  have  all  the  fatigues 
on't. 

Sir  William.  Well,  it  may  be  shorter,  and  less 
fatiguing,  than  you  imagine.  I  know  but  too  much  of 
the  young  lady's  family  and  connections,  whom  I  have 
seen  abroad.  I  have  also  discovered  that  Miss  Rich- 
land  is  not  indifferent  to  my  thoughtless  nephew ;  and 
will  endeavor  though  I  fear  in  vain,  to  establish  that 
connection.  But  come,  the  letter  I  wait  for  must  be 
almost  finished ;  I'll  let  you  farther  into  my  intentions 
in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt. 


THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN.  231 

ACT    FOURTH. 

Scene— CROAKER'S  HOUSB. 
Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Well,  sure  the  devil 's  in  me  of  late,  for  run- 
ning my  head  into  such  defiles,  as  nothing  but  a  genius 
like  my  own  could  draw  me  from.  I  was  formerly  con- 
tented to  husband  out  my  places  and  pensions  with  some 
degree  of  frugality  ;  but  curse  it,  of  late  I  have  given 
away  the  whole  Court  Register  in  less  time  than  they 
could  print  the  title-page ;  yet,  hang  it,  why  scruple  a 
lie  or  two  to  come  at  a  fine  girl,  when  I  every  day  tell 
a  thousand  for  nothing  ?  Ha !  Honey  wood  here  before 
me.  Could  Miss  Richland  have  set  him  at  liberty  ? 
(Enter  Honeywood.)  Mr.  Honey  wood,  I'm  glad  to  see 
you  abroad  again.  I  find  my  concurrence  was  not 
necessary  in  your  unfortunate  affairs.  I  had  put  things 
in  a  train  to  do  your  business  ;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say  what  I  intended  doing. 

Honeywood.  It  was  unfortunate,  indeed,  sir.  But 
what  adds  to  my  uneasiness  is,  that  while  you  seem  to 
be  acquainted  with  my  misfortune,  I  myself  continue 
still  a  stranger  to  my  benefactor. 

Lofty.     How  !  not  know  the  friend  that  served  you  ? 

Honeywood.     Can 't  guess  at  the  person. 

Lofty.     Inquire. 

Honeywood.  I  have  ;  but  all  I  can  learn  is,  that  he 
chooses  to  remain  concealed,  and  that  all  inquiry  must 
be  fruitless. 


232  THE    GOOIVNATURED    MAN. 

Lofty.     Must  be  fruitless  ? 

Honeywood.     Absolutely  fruitless. 

Lofty.     Sure  of  that? 

Honeywood.     Very  sure. 

Lofty.  Then  I  '11  be  damn'd  if  you  shall  ever  know 
it  from  me. 

Honeywood.     How,  sir?  ^ 

Lofty.  I  suppose  now,  Mr.  Honeywood,  you  think 
my  rent-roll  very  considerable,  and  that  I  have  vast 
sums  of  money  to  throw  away  ;  I  know  you  do.  The 
world,  to  be  sure,  says  such  things  of  me. 

Honeywood.  The  world,  by  what  I  learn,  is  no 
stranger  to  your  generosity.  But  where  does  this  tend  ? 

Lofty.  To  nothing  —  nothing  in  the  world.  The 
town,  to  be  sure,  when  it  makes  such  a  thing  as  me 
the  subject  of  conversation,  has  asserted  that  I  never 
yet  patronized  a  man  of  merit. 

Honeywood.  I  have  heard  instances  to  the  contrary, 
even  from  yourself. 

Lofty.  Yes,  Honeywood  ;  and  there  are  instances 
to  the  contrary,  that  you  shall  never  hear  from  myself. 

Honeywood.  Ha !  dear  sir,  permit  me  to  ask  you 
but  one  question. 

Lofty.  Sir,  ask  me  no  questions  ;  I  say,  sir,  ask  me 
no  questions  ;  I  '11  be  damn'd  if  I  answer  them. 

Honeywood.  I  will  ask  no  farther.  My  friend! 
my  benefactor !  it  is,  it  must  be  here,  that  I  am  indebted 
for  freedom  —  for  honor.  Yes,  thou  worthiest  of  men, 
from  the  beginning  I  suspected  it,  but  was  afraid  to 
return  thanks ;  which,  if  undeserved,  might  seem  re- 
proaches. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  2 

Lofty.  I  protest  I  do  not  understand  all  this,  Mr. 
Honey  wood :  you  treat  me  very  cavalierly.  I  do  as- 
sure you,  sir  —  Blood,  sir,  can't  a  man  be  permitted  to 
enjoy  the  luxury  of  his  own  feelings,  without  all  this 
parade  ? 

Honeywood.  Nay,  do  not  attempt  to  conceal  an  ac- 
tion that  adds  to  your  honor.  Your  looks,  your  air, 
your  manner,  all  confess  it. 

Lofty.  Confess  it,  sir !  torture  itself,  sir,  shall  never 
bring  me  to  confess  it.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I  have  ad- 
mitted you  upon  terms  of  friendship.  Don't  let  us 
fall  out ;  make  me  happy,  and  let  this  be  buried  in  ob- 
livion. You  know  I  hate  ostentation  ;  you  know  I  do. 
Come,  come,  Honeywood,  you  know  I  always  loved  to 
be  a  friend,  and  not  a  patron.  I  beg  this  may  make 
no  kind  of  distance  between  us.  Come,  come,  you  and 
I  must  be  more  familiar  —  indeed  we  must. 

Honeywood.  Heavens!  Can  I  ever  repay  such 
friendship  ?  Is  there  any  way  ?  Thou  best  of  men, 
can  I  ever  return  the  obligation  ? 

Lofty.  A  bagatelle,  a  mere  bagatelle !  But  I  see 
your  heart  is  laboring  to  be  grateful.  You  shall  be 
grateful.  It  would  be  cruel  to  disappoint  you. 

Honeywood.  How  ?  teach  me  the  manner.  Is  there 
any  way  ? 

Lofty.  From  this  moment  you're  mine.  Yes,  my 
friend,  you  shall  know  it  —  I  'm  in  love. 

Honeywood.     And  can  I  assist  you. 

Lofty.     Nobody  so  well. 

Honeywood.     In  what  manner  ?  I  'm  all  impatience 

Lofty.     You  shall  make  love  for  me. 
20* 


234  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Honeywood.  And  to  whom  shall  I  speak  in  your 
favor  ? 

Lofty.  To  a  lady  with  whom  you  have  a  great  in- 
terest, I  assure  you  —  Miss  Richland. 

Honeywood.     Miss  Richland! 

Lofty.  Yes,  Miss  Richland.  She  has  struck  the 
blow  up  to  the  hilt  in  my  bosom,  by  Jupiter. 

Honeywood.  Heavens!  was  ever  any  thing  more 
unfortunate  ?  It  is  too  much  to  be  endured. 

Lofty.  Unfortunate,  indeed !  And  yet  I  can  en- 
dure it.  till  you  have  opened  the  affair  to  her  for  me. 
Between  ourselves,  I  think  she  likes  me.  I'm  not  apt 
to  boast,  but  I  think  she  does. 

Honeywood.  Indeed !  But  do  you  know  the  per- 
son you  apply  to  ? 

Lofty.  Yes,  I  know  you  are  her  friend  and  mine : 
that's  enough.  To  you,  therefore,  I  commit  the  suc- 
cess of  my  passion.  I'll  say  no  more,  let  friendship  do 
the  rest.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  if  at  any  time  my 
little  interest  can  be  of  service — but,  hang  it,  I'll  make 
no  promises :  you  know  my  interest  is  yours  at  any 
time.  No  apologies,  my  friend,  I'll  not  be  answered ; 
It  shall  be  so.  \_Exit. 

Honeywood.  Open,  generous,  unsuspecting  man ! 
He  little  thinks  that  I  love  her  too ;  and  with  such  an 
ardent  passion !  But  then  it  was  ever  but  a  vain  and 
hopeless  one  :  my  torment,  my  persecution !  What 
shall  I  do  ?  Love,  friendship  ;  a  hopeless  passion,  a 
deserving  friend  !  Love  that  has  been  my  tormenter  ; 
a  friend  that  has  perhaps  distressed  himself  to  serve 
me.  It  shall  be  so.  Yes,  1  will  discard  the  fondling 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  235 

hope  from  my  bosom,  and  exert  all  my  influence  in  his 
favor.  And  yet  to  see  her  in  the  possession  of  another ! 
—  Insupportable !  But  then  to  betray  a  generous, 
trusting  friend.!  — Worse,  worse  !  Yes,  I'm  resolved. 
Let  me  but  be  the  instrument  of  their  happiness,  and 
then  quit  a  country,  where  I  must  forever  despair  of 
finding  my  own.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Garnet,  who  carries  a  milliner's  box. 

Olivia.  Dear  me,  I  wish  this  journey  were  over. 
No  news  of  Jarvis  yet  ?  I  believe  the  old  peevish  crea- 
ture delays  purely  to  vex  me. 

Garnet.  Why,  to  be  sure,  madam,  I  did  hear  him 
say,  a  little  snubbing  before  marriage  would  teach  you 
to  bear  it  the  better  afterwards. 

Olivia.  To  be  gone  a  full  hour,  though  he  had  only 
to  get  a  bill  changed  in  the  city  !  How  provoking! 

Garnet.  I'll  lay  my  life,  Mr.  Leontine,  that  had 
twice  as  much  to  do,  is  setting  off  by  this  time,  from 
his  inn  and  here  you  are  left  behind. 

Olivia.  Well,  let  us  be  prepared  for  his  coming, 
however.  Are  you  sure  you  have  omitted  nothing, 
Garnet? 

Garnet.  Not  a  stick,  madam ;  all's  here.  Yet  I 
wish  you  could  take  the  white  and  silver  to  be  married 
in.  It 's  the  worst  luck  in  the  world  in  anything  but 
white.  I  knew  one  Bett  Stubbs  of  our  town,  that  was 
married  in  red ;  and  as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs,  the  bride- 
groom and  she  had  a  miff  before  morning. 

Olivia.  No  matter,  I  'm  all  impatience  till  we  are 
out  of  the  house* 


236  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Garnet.  Bless  me,  madam,  I  had  almost  forgot  the 
wedding  ring!  The  sweet  little  thing.  I  don't  think 
it  would  go  on  my  little  finger.  And  what  if  I  put  in 
a  gentleman's  night-cap,  in  case  of  necessity,  madam  ? 
—  But  here 's  Jarvis. 

Enter  Jarvis. 

Olivia.  O  Jarvis,  are  you  come  at  last !  We  have 
been  ready  this  half  hour.  Now  let 's  be  going.  Let 
us  fly! 

Jarvis.  Ay,  to  Jericho ;  for  we  shall  have  no  going 
to  Scotland  this  bout,  I  fancy. 

Olivia.     How !  what's  the  matter  ? 

Jarvis.  Money,  money  is  the  matter,  madam.  We 
have  got  no  money.  What  the  plague  do  you  send  me 
of  your  fool's  errand  for  ?  My  master's  bill  upon  the 
city  is  not  worth  a  rush.  Here  it  is  ;  Mrs.  Garnet 
may  pin  up  her  hair  with  it. 

Olivia.  Undone !  How  could  Honeywood  serve  us 
so  ?  What  shall  we  do  ?  Can 't  we  go  without  it  ? 

Jarvis.  Go  to  Scotland  without  money !  To  Scot- 
land without  money !  Lord  !  how  some  people  under- 
stand geography !  We  might  as  wrell  set  sail  for  Pata- 
gonia upon  a  cork-jacket. 

Olivia.  Such  a  disappointment !  What  a  base,  in- 
sincere man  was  your  master,  to  serve  us  in  this  man- 
ner. Is  this  his  good-nature  ? 

Jarvis.  Nay,  do  n't  talk  ill  of  my  master,  madam : 
I  won't  bear  to  hear  any  body  talk  ill  of  him  but  my- 
self. 

Garnet.     Bless  us  !   now  I  think  on't,  madam,  you 


THE    GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  237 

need  not  be  under  any  uneasiness :  I  saw  Mr.  Leon- 
tine  receive  forty  guineas  from  his  father  just  before 
he  set  out,  and  he  can't  yet  have  left  the  inn.  A  short 
letter  will  reach  him  there. 

Olivia.  Well  remembered,  Garnet ;  I  '11  write  im- 
mediately. How's  this  ?  Bless  me,  my  hand  trembles 
so  I  can't  write  a  word.  Do  you  write,  Garnet  ?  and, 
upon  second  thought,  it  will  be  better  from  you. 

Garnet.  Truly,  madam,  I  write  and  indite  but  poor- 
ly, I  never  was  cute  at  my  learning.  But  I  '11  do  what 
I  can  to  please  you.  Let  me  see.  All  out  of  my  own 
head,  I  suppose  ? 

Olivia.     Whatever  you  please. 

Garnet.  (Writing.)  'Muster  Croaker' — Twenty 
guineas,  madam? 

Olivia.     Ay,  twenty  will  do. 

Garnet.  'At  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  till  called  for. — 
Expedition — Will  be  blown  up — All  of  a  flame — 
Quick  despatch  —  Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love.' — I 
conclude  it,  madam,  with  Cupid :  I  love  to  see  a  love 
letter  end  like  poetry. 

Olivia.  Well,  well,  what  you  please,  anything.  But 
how  shall  we  send  it?  I  can  tfust  none  of  the  ser- 
vants of  this  family. 

Garnet.  Odso,  madam,  Mr.  Honeywood's  butler  is 
in  the  next  room :  he 's  a  dear,  sweet  man ;  he'll  do 
anything  for  me. 

Jarvis.  He !  the  dog,  he'll  certainly  commit  some 
blunder.  He's  drunk  and  sober  ten  times  a-day. 

Olivia.  No  matter.  Fly,  Garnet:  any  body  we 
can  trust  will  do.  [Exit  Garnet."]  Well,  Jarvis,  now 


238  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

we  can  have  nothing  more  to  interrupt  us ;  you  may 
take  up  the  things,  and  carry  them  on  to  the  inn. 
Have  you  no  hands,  Jarvis  ? 

Jarvis.  Soft  and  fair,  young  lady.  You  that  are 
going  to  be  married  think  things  can  never  be  done 
too  fast;  but  we,  that  are  old,  and  know  what  we  are 
about,  must  elope  methodically,  madam. 

Olivia.  Well,  sure,  if  my  indiscretions  were  to  be 
done  over  again 

Jarvis.  My  life  for  it,  you  would  do  them  ten  times 
over 

Olivia.  Why  will  you  talk  so  ?  If  you  knew  how 
unhappy  they  make  me — 

Jarvis.  Very  unhappy,  no  doubt ;  I  was  once  just 
as  unhappy  when  I  was  going  to  be  married  myself. 
I  '11  tell  you  a  story  about  that 

Olivia.  A  story !  when  I  am  all  impatience  to  be 
away.  Was  there  ever  such  a  dilatory  creature ! 

Jarvis.  Well,  madam,  if  we  must  march,  why  we 
will  march,  that's  all.  Though,  odds-bobs,  we  have 
still  forgot  one  thing  we  should  never  travel  without — 
a  case  of  good  razors,  and  a  box  of  shaving  powder. 
But  no  matter,  I  believe  we  shall  be  pretty  well  shaved 
by  the  way.  [  Going. 

Enter  Garnet. 

Garnet.  Undone,  undone,  madam.  Ah,  Mr-  Jar- 
vis,  you  said  right  enough.  As  sure  as  death,  Mr. 
Honeywood's  rogue  of  a  drunken  butler  dropped  the 
letter  before  he  went  ten  yards  from  the  door.  There's 
old  Croaker  has  just  picked  it  up,  and  is  this  moment 
reading  it  to  himself  in  the  hall. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  239 

Olivia.     Unfortunate  !  we  shall  be  discovered. 

Garnet.  No,  madam ;  do  n't  be  uneasy,  he  can  make 
neither  head  nor  tail  of  it.  To  be  sure,  he  looks  as  if 
he  was  broke  loose  from  Bedlam,  about  it,  but  he  can't 
find  what  it  means  for  all  that.  0  lud,  he  is  coming 
this  way  all  in  the  horrors. 

Olivia.  Then  let  us  leave  the  house  this  instant  for 
fear  he  should  ask  farther  questions.  In  the  mean 
time,  G?rnet,  do  you  write  and  send  off  just  such  an- 
other. [Exeunt. 
Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Death  and  destruction  !  Are  all  the  hor- 
rors of  air,  fire,  and  water,  to  be  levelled  only  at  me  ? 
Am  I  only  to  be  singled  out  for  gunpowder  plots,  com- 
bustibles, and  conflagrations  ?  Here  it  is  — An  incen- 
diary letter  dropped  at  my  door.  l  To  Muster  Croaker, 
these  with  speed.'  Ay,  ay,  plain  enough  the  direction ; 
all  in  the  genuine  incendiary  spelling,  and  as  cramp  as 
the  devil.  'With  speed.'  Oh,  confound  your  speed! 
But  let  me  read  it  once  more.  (Reads.)  '  Muster 
Croaker,  as  sone  as  yowe  see  this,  leve  twenty  gunnes 
at  the  bar  of  the  Talboot  tell  caled  for,  or  yowe  and 
yower  experetion  will  be  al  blown  up.'  Ah,  but  too 
plain !  Blood  and  gunpowder  in  every  line  of  it. 
Blown  up !  murderous  dog !  All  blown  up !  Heavens! 
what  have  I  and  my  poor  family  done,  to  be  all  blown 
up  ?  (Reads.)  '  Our  pockets  are  low,  and  money  we 
must  have.'  Ay,  there's  the  reason ;  they'll  blow  us 
up,  because  they  have  got  low  pockets.  (Reads.)  i  It 
is  but  a  short  time  you  have  to  consider ;  for  if  this 
takes  wind,  the  house  will  quickly  be  all  of  a  flame.' 


240  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Inhuman  monsters!  blow  us  up,  and  then  burn  us! 
The  earthquake  at  Lisbon  was  but  a  bonfire  to  it. 
(Reads.)  '  Make  quick  despatch,  and  so  no  more  at 
present.  But  may  Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love,  go 
with  you  wherever  you  go.'  The  little  god  of  love! 
Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love,  go  with  me !  —  Go  you  to 
the  devil,  you  and  your  little  Cupid  together.  I'm  so 
frightened,  I  scarce  know  whether  I  sit,  stand,  or  go. 
Perhaps  this  moment  I'm  treading  on  lighted  matches, 
blazing  brimstone,  and  barrels  of  gunpowder.  They 
are  preparing  to  blow  me  up  into  the  clouds.  Murder! 
We  shall  be  all  burnt  in  our  beds ;  we  shall  be  all 
burnt  in  our  beds  ! 

JEnter  Miss  Richland. 

Miss  Richland.     Lord,  sir,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Croaker.  Murder's  the  matter.  We  shall  be  all 
blown  up  in  our  beds  before  morning. 

Miss  Richland.     I  hope  not,  sir. 

Croaker.  What  signifies  what  you  hope,  madam, 
when  I  have  a  certificate  of  it  here  in  my  hand  ?  Will 
nothing  alarm  my  family?  Sleeping  and  eating  — 
sleeping  and  eating  is  the  only  work  from  morning  till 
night  in  my  house.  My  insensible  crew  could  sleep 
though  rocked  by  an  earthquake,  and  fry  beef-steaks 
at  a  volcano. 

Miss  Richland.  But,  sir,  you  have  alarmed  them  so 
often  already  ;  we  have  nothing  but  earthquakes,  fam- 
ines, plagues,  and  mad  dogs  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end.  You  remember,  sir,  it  is  not  above  a  month 
ago,  you  assured  us  of  a  conspiracy  among  the  bakers 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  241 

to  poison  us  in  our  bread ;  and  so  kept  the  whole  fam- 
ily a  week  upon  potatoes. 

Croaker.  And  potatees  were  too  good  for  them. 
But  why  do  I  stand  talking  here  with  a  girl,  when  I 
should  be  facing  the  enemy  without !  Here,  John, 
Nicodemus,  search  the  house.  Look  into  the  cellars, 
to  see  if  there  be  any  combustibles  below ;  and  above, 
in  the  apartments  that  no  matches  be  thrown  in  at  the 
windows.  Let  all  the  fires  be  put  out,  and  let  the  en- 
gine be  drawn  out  in  the  yard,  to  play  upon  the  house 
in  case  of  necessity.  [Exit. 

Miss  Richland.  (Alone.)  What  can  he  mean  by 
all  this  ?  Yet  why  should  I  inquire,  when  he  alarms 
tis  in  this  manner  almost  every  day.  But  Honey  wood 
has  desired  an  interview  with  me  in  private.  What 
can  he  mean  ?  or  rather,  what  means  this  palpitation 
at  his  approach  ?  It  is  the  first  time  he  ever  showed 
anything  in  his  conduct  that  seemed  particular.  Sure, 
he  cannot  mean  to  —  but  he's  here. 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeywood.  I  presumed  to  solicit  this  interview, 
madam,  before  I  left  town,  to  be  permitted 

Miss  Richland.     Indeed  !  leaving  town,  sir  ? 

Honeywood.  Yes,  madam,  perhaps  the  kingdom.  I 
have  presumed,  I  say,  to  desire  the  favor  of  this  inter- 
view in  order  to  disclose  something  which  our  long 
friendship  prompts.  And  yet  my  fears 

Miss  Richland.  His  fears !  what  are  his  fears  to 
mine !  (Aside.)  We  have,  indeed,  been  long  ac- 
quainted, sir;  very  long.  If  I  remember,  our  first 

21 


212  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

meeting  was  at  the  French  ambassador's.  Do  you 
recollect  how  you  were  pleased  to  rally  me  upon  my 
complexion  there  ? 

Honeywood.  Perfectly,  madam  ;  I  presumed  to  re- 
prove you  for  painting ;  but  your  warmer  blushes  soon 
convinced  the  company  that  the  coloring  was  all  from 
nature. 

Miss  Richland.  And  yet  you  only  meant  it  in  youi 
good-natured  way,  to  make  me  pay  a  compliment  to 
myself.  In  the  same  manner,  you  danced  that  night 
with  the  most  awkward  woman  in  company,  because 
you  saw  nobody  else  would  take  her  out. 

Honeywood.  Yes  ;  and  was  rewarded  the  next  night 
by  dancing  with  the  finest  woman  in  company,  whom 
everybody  wished  to  take  out. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  sir,  if  you  thought  so  then, 
I  fear  your  judgment  has  since  corrected  the  errors  of 
a  first  impression.  We  generally  show  to  most  advan- 
tage at  first.  Our  sex  are  like  poor  tradesmen,  that 
put  all  their  best  goods  to  be  seen  at  the  windows. 

Honeywood.  The  first  impression,  madam,  did  in- 
deed deceive  me.  I  expected  to  find  a  woman  with  all 
the  faults  of  conscious,  flattered  beauty  ;  I  expected  to 
find  her  vain  and  insolent.  But  every  day  has  since 
taught  me,  that  it  is  possible  to  possess  sense  without 
pride,  and  beauty  without  affectation. 

Miss  Richland.  This,  sir,  is  a  style  very  unusual 
with  Mr.  Honeywood ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
why  he  thus  attempts  to  increase  that  vanity,  which  his 
own  lessons  have  taught  me  to  despise. 

Honeywood.     I  ask  pardon,  madam.     Yet,  from  our 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  243 

long  friendship,  I  presumed  I  might  have  some  right 
to  offer,  without  offence,  what  you  may  refuse  without 
offending. 

Miss  Richland.  Sir !  I  beg  you  'd  reflect :  though  I 
fear  I  shall  scarce  have  any  power  to  refuse  a  request 
of  yours,  yet  you  may  be  precipitate  :  consider,  sir. 

Honeywood.  I  own  my  rashness  ;  but  as  I  plead  the 
cause  of  friendship,  of  one  who  loves  —  don't  be  alarm- 
ed, madam — who  loves  you  with  the  most  ardent  pas- 
sion,  whose  whole  happiness  is  placed  in  you 

Miss  Richland.  I  fear,  sir,  I  shall  never  find  whom 
you  mean,  by  this  description  of  him. 

Honeywood.  Ah,  madam,  it  but  too  plainly  points  him 
out !  though  he  should  be  too  humble  himself  to  urge 
his  pretensions,  or  you  too  modest  to  understand  them. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  it  would  be  affectation  any 
longer  to  pretend  ignorance ;  and  I  will  own,  sir,  I 
have  long  been  prejudiced  in  his  favor.  It  was  bat 
natural  to  wish  to  make  his  heart  mine,  as  he  seemed 
himself  ignorant  of  its  value. 

Honeywood.  I  see  she  always  loved  him.  (Aside.) 
I  find,  madam,  you're  already  sensible  of  his  worth, 
his  passion.  How  happy  is  my  friend  to  be  the  favor- 
ite of  one  with  such  sense  to  distinguish  merit,  and 
such  beauty  to  reward  it ! 

Miss  Richland.     Your  friend,  sir !  what  friend  ? 

Honeywood.  My  best  friend — my  friend  Mr.  Lofty, 
madam. 

Miss  Richland.     He,  sir? 

Honeywood.  Yes,'  he,  madam.  He  is,  indeed,  what 
your  warmest  wishes  might  have  formed  him  :  and  to 


244  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

his  other  qualities  he  adds  that  of  the  most  passionate 
regard  for  you. 

Miss  Richland.  Amazement !  —  No  more  of  this, 
I  beg  you,  sir. 

Honeywood.  I  see  your  confusion,  madam,  and 
know  how  to  interpret  it.  And,  since  I  so  plainly  read 
the  language  of  your  heart,  shall  I  make  my  friend 
happy,  by  communicating  your  sentiments  ? 

Miss  Richland..     By  no  means. 

Honeywood.  Excuse  me,  I  must ;  I  know  you  de- 
sire it. 

Miss  Richland.  Mr.  Honeywood,  let  me  tell  you, 
that  you  wrong  my  sentiments  and  yourself.  When  I 
first  applied  to  your  friendship,  I  expected  advice  and 
assistance ;  but  now,  sir,  I  see  that  it  is  vain  to  expect 
happiness  from  him  who  has  been  so  bad  an  economist 
of  his  own  ;  and  that  I  must  disclaim  his  friendship 
who  ceases  to  be  a  friend  to  himself.  [Exit. 

Honeywood.  How  is  this?  she  has  confessed  she 
loved  him,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  part  in  displeasure. 
Can  I  have  done  anything  to  reproach  myself  with  ? 
No !  I  believe  not :  yet,  after  all,  these  things  should 
lot  be  done  by  a  third  person :  I  should  have  spared 
her  confusion.  My  friendship  carried  me  a  little  too  far. 

Enter  Croaker,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and 
Mrs.  Croaker. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  And  so,  my  dear,  it's 
your  supreme  wish  that  I  should  be  quite  wretched 
upon  this  occasion  ?  Ha  !  ha ! 

Croaker.     (Mimicking.)     Ha !  ha !  ha  !    And  so,  my 


THE    GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  245 

itear,  it's  jour  supreme  pleasure  to  give  me  no  better 
consolation  ? 

Mrs,  Croaker.  Positively,  my  dear ;  what  is  this 
incendiary  stuff  and  trumpery  to  me  ?  Our  house  may 
travel  through  the  air,  like  the  house  of  Loretto,  for 
aught  I  care,  if  I  'm  to  be  miserable  in  it. 

Croaker.  Would  to  heaven  it  were  converted  into 
a  house  of  correction  for  your  benefit.  Have  we  not 
everything  to  alarm  us  ?  Perhaps  this  very  moment 
the  tragedy  is  beginning. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Then  let  us  reserve  our  distress  till 
the  rising  of  the  curtain,  or  give  them  the  money  they 
want,  and  have  done  with  them. 

Croaker.  Give  them  my  money  !  —  and  pray,  what 
right  have  they  to  my  money  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  pray,  what  right,  then,  have 
you  to  my  good-humor  ? 

Croaker.  And  so  your  good  humor  advises  me  to 
part  with  my  money  ?  Why,  then,  to  tell  your  good- 
humor  a  piece  of  my  mind,  I  'd  sooner  part  with  my 
wife.  Here  is  Mr.  Honey  wood ;  see  what  he  '11  say  to 
it.  My  dear  Honeywood,  look  at  this  incendiary  letter 
dropped  at  my  door.  It  will  freeze  you  with  terror ; 
and  yet  lovey  can  read  it  —  can  read  it  and  laugh. 

Mrs.  Croaker.     Yes,  and  so  will  Mr.  Ploneywood. 

Croaker.  If  he  does,  I'll  suffer  to  be  hanged  the 
next  minute  in  the  rogue's  place,  that 's  all. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Speak,  Mr.  Honeywood;  is  there 
anything  more  foolish  than  my  husband's  fright  upon 
this  occasion  ? 

Honeywood.  It  would  not  become  me  to  decide, 
21* 


246  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

madam;  but,  doubtless,  the  greatness  of  his  terrors 
now  will  but  invite  them  to  renew  their  villany  anoth- 
er time. 

Mrs.  Croaker.     I  told  you,  he'd  be  of  my  opinion. 

Croaker.  How,  sir !  Do  you  maintain  that  I  should 
lie  down  under  such  an  injury,  and  show,  neither  by 
my  fears  nor  complaints,  that  I  have  something  of  the 
spirit  of  a  man  in  me  ? 

Honeywood.  Pardon  me,  sir.  You  ought  to  make 
the  loudest  complaints,  if  you  desire  redress.  The 
surest  way  to  have  redress  is  to  be  earnest  in  the  pur- 
suit of  it. 

Croaker.     Ay,  whose  opinion  is  he  of  now  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  don't  you  think  that  laughing 
off  our  fears  is  the  best  way  ? 

Honeywood.  What  is  the  best,  madam,  few  can  ray ; 
but  I  '11  maintain  it  to  be  a  very  wise  way. 

Croaker.  But  we're  talking  of  the  best.  Surely 
the  best  way  is  to  face  the  enemy  in  the  field,  and  not 
wait  till  lie  plunders  us  in  our  very  bed-chamber. 

Honeywood.  Why,  sir,  as  to  the  best,  that  —  that's 
a  very  wise  way  too. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  can  anything  be  more  absurd, 
than  to  double  our  distress  by  our  apprehensions,  and 
put  it  in  the  power  of  every  low  fellow,  that  can  scrawl 
ten  words  of  wretched  spelling,  to  torment  us  ? 

Honeywood.     Without  doubt,  nothing  more  absurd. 

Croaker.  How  !  would  it  not  be  more  absurd  to  de- 
spise the  rattle  till  we  are  bit  by  the  snake  ? 

Honeywood.     Without  doubt,  perfectly  absurd. 

Croaker.     Then  your  are  of  my  opinion. 

Honeywood.     Entirely. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  247 

Mrs.  Croaker.     And  you  reject  mine  ? 

Honeywood.  Heavens  forbid,  madam !  No,  sure  no 
reasoning  can  be  more  just  than  yours.  We  ought 
certainly  to  despise  malice,  if  we  cannot  oppose  it,  and 
not  make  the  incendiary's  pen  as  fatal  to  our  repose  as 
the  highwayman's  pistol. 

Mrs.  Croaker.     Oh,  then  you  think  I'm  quite  right  ? 

Honeywood.     Perfectly  right. 

Croaker.  A  plague  of  plagues,  we  can't  be  both 
right.  I  ought  to  be  sorry,  or  I  ought  to  be  glad.  My 
hat  must  be  on  my  head,  or  my  hat  must  be  off. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Certainly,  in  two  opposite  opinions, 
if  one  be  perfectly  reasonable,  the  other  can 't  be  per- 
fectly right. 

Honeywood.  And  why  may  not  both  be  right,  mad- 
am? Mr.  Croaker  in  earnestly  seeking  redress,  and 
you  in  waiting  the  event  in  good-humor?  Pray,  let 
me  see  the  letter  again.  I  have  it.  This  letter  re- 
quires twenty  guineas  to  be  left  at  the  bar  of  the  Tal- 
bot  Inn.  If  it  be  indeed  an  incendiary  letter,  what  if 
you  and  I,  sir,  go  there ;  and  when  the  writer  comes 
to  be  paid  his  expected  booty,  seize  him  ? 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  it 's  the  very  thing — the 
very  thing.  While  I  walk  by  the  door,  you  shall  plant 
yourself  in  ambush  near  the  bar ;  burst  out  upon  the 
miscreant  like  a  masked  battery ;  extort  a  confession 
at  once,  and  so  hang  him  up  by  surprise. 

Honeywood.  Yes,  but  I  would  not  choose  to  exer- 
cise too  much  severity.  It  is  my  maxim,  sir,  that 
crimes  generally  punish  themselves. 

Croaker.  Well,  but  we  may  upbraid  him  a  little.  I 
suppose.  (Ironically.) 


248  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Honeywood.     Ay,  but  not  punish  him  too  rigidly. 

Croaker.     "Well,  well,  leave  that  to  my  own  benevo 
lence. 

Honeywood.     Well,  I  do ;   but  remember  that  uni- 
versal  benevolence  is  the  law  of  nature. 

[ Exeunt  Honeywood  and  Mrs.  Croaker. 

Croaker.     Yes  ;  and  my  universal  benevolence  wil'i 
hang  the  dog,  if  he  had  as  many  necks  as  a  hydra. 


ACT    FIFTH. 

Scene.— AN  INN. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Jarvis. 

Olivia.  Well,  we  have  got  safe  to  the  inn,  however. 
Now,  if  the  post-chaise  were  ready 

Jarvis.  The  horses  are  just  finishing  their  oats; 
and,  as  they  are  not  going  to  be  married,  they  choose 
to  take  their  own  time. 

Olivia.  You  are  for  ever  giving  wrong  motives  to 
my  impatience. 

Jarvis.  Be  as  impatient  as  you  will,  the  horses  must 
take  their  own  time ;  besides,  you  do  n't  consider  we  have 
got  no  answer  from  our  fellow-traveller  yet.  If  we  hear 
nothing  from  Mr.  Leontine,  we  have  only  one  way  left  us. 

Olivia.     What  way  ? 

Jarvis.     The  way  home  again. 

Olivia.  Not  so.  I  have  made  a  resolution  to  go, 
and  nothing  shall  induce  me  to  break  it. 

Jarvis.  Ay ;  resolutions  are  well  kept,  when  they 
jump  with  inclination.  However,  I'll  go  hasten  things 
without.  And  I  '11  call,  too,  at  the  bar  to  see  if  any 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  249 

thing  should  be  left  for  us  there.     Do  n't  be  in  such  a 

plaguy  hurry,  madam,  and  we  shall  go  the  faster,  I 

promise  you.  [Exit. 

Enter  Landlady. 

Landlady.  What !  Solomon,  why  do  n't  you  move. 
Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Lamb  there.  Will  nobody 
answer  ?  To  the  Dolphin ;  quick.  The  Angel  has 
been  outrageous  this  half  hour.  Did  your  ladyship 
call,  madam? 

Olivia.     No,  madam. 

Landlady.  I  find  as  you  are  for  Scotland,  madam, 
—  but  that's  no  business  of  mine;  married,  or  not 
married,  I  ask  no  questions.  To  be  sure,  we  had  a 
sweet  little  couple  set  off  from  this  two  days  ago 
for  the  same  place.  The  gentleman,  for  a  tailor,  was, 
to  be  sure,  as  fine  a  spoken  tailor  as  ever  blew  froth 
from  a  full  pot.  And  the  young  lady  so  bashful,  it  was 
near  half  an  hour  before  we  could  get  her  to  finish  a 
pint  of  rasberry  between  us. 

Olivia.  But  this  gentleman  and  I  are  not  going  to 
be  married,  I  assure  you. 

Landlady.  May  be  not.  That 's  no  business  of  mine 
for  certain  Scotch  marriages  seldom  turn  out  well. 
There  was,  of  my  own  knowledge,  Miss  Macfag,  that 
married  her  father's  footman.  Alack-a-day,  she  and 
her  husband  soon  parted,  and  now  keep  separate  cel- 
lars in  Hedge-lane. 

Olivia.  (Aside.)  A  very  pretty  picture  of  what 
lies  before  me ! 

Enter  Leontine. 

Leontine.     My  dear  Olivia,  my  anxiety,  till  you  were 


2-">0  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

out  of  danger,  was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  I  could 
not  help  coming  to  see  you  set  out,  though  it  exposes 
us  to  a  discovery. 

Olivia.  May  everything  you  do  prove  as  fortunate. 
Indeed,  Leontine,  we  have  been  most  cruelly  disap- 
pointed. Mr.  Honeywood's  bill  upon  the  city  has,  it 
seems,  been  protested,  and  we  have  been  utterly  at  a 
loss  how  to  proceed. 

Leontine.  How !  an  offer  of  hira  own  too  !  Sure  he 
could  not  mean  to  deceive  us  ? 

Olivia.  Depend  upon  his  sincerity ;  he  only  mis- 
took the  desire  for  the  power  of  serving  us.  But  let 
us  think  no  more  of  it.  I  believe  the  post-chaise  is 
Teady  by  this. 

Landlady.  Not  quite  yet ;  and  begging  your  lady- 
ship's pardon,  I  do  n't  think  your  ladyship  quite  ready 
for  the  post-chaise.  The  north  road  is  a  cold  place, 
madam.  I  have  a  drop  in  the  house  of  as  pretty  rasp- 
berry as  ever  was  tipt  over  tongue.  Just  a  thim- 
bleful to  keep  the  wind  off  your  stomach.  To  be  sure 
the  last  couple  we  had  here,  they  said  it  was  a  perfect 
nosegay.  Ecod,  I  sent  them  both  away  as  good-na- 
tured—  Up  went  the  blinds,  round  went  the  wheels, 
and  Drive  away,  post  boy !  was  the  word. 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Well,  while  my  friend  Honeywood  is  up- 
on the  post  of  danger  at  the  bar,  it  must  be  my  busi- 
ness to  have  an  eye  about  me  here.  I  think  I  know 
&n  incendiary's  look ,  for  wherever  the  devil  makes  a 
purchase,  he  never  fails  to  set  his  mark.  Ha !  who 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  251 

have  we  here  ?     My  son  and  daughter !     What  can 
they  be  doing  here  ? 

Landlady.  I  tell  you,  madam,  it  will  do  you  good ; 
I  think  I  know  by  this  time  what 's  good  for  the  north 
road.  It's  a  raw  night,  madam. Sir  — 

Leontine.  Not  a  drop  more,  good  madam.  I  should 
now  take  it  as  a  greater  favor,  if  you  hasten  the  horses, 
for  I  am  afraid  to  be  seen  myself. 

Landlady.  That  shall  be  done.  Wha,  Solomon ! 
are  you  all  dead  there  ?  Wha,  Solomon,  I  say ! 

[Exit,  bawling. 

Olivia.  Well,  I  dread  lest  an  expedition  begun  in 
fear,  should  end  in  repentance.  Every  moment  we  stay 
increases  our  danger,  and  adds  to  my  apprehensions. 

Leontine.  There's  no  danger,  trust  me,  my  dear ; 
there  can  be  none.  If  Honey  wood  has  acted  with  hon- 
or, and  kept  my  father,  as  he  promised,  in  employment 
till  we  are  out  of  danger,  nothing  can  interrupt  our 
journey. 

Olivia.  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mr.  Honeywood's  sin- 
cerity, and  even  his  desire  to  serve  us.  My  fears  are 
from  your  father's  suspicions.  A  mind  so  disposed  to 
be  alarmed  without  a  cause,  will  be  but  too  ready  when 
there's  a  reason. 

Leontine.  Why,  let  him,  when  we  are  out  of  his 
power.  But  believe  me,  Olivia,  you  have  no  great 
reason  to  dread  his  resentment.  His  repining  temper, 
as  it  does  no  manner  of  injury  to  himself,  so  will  it 
never  do  harm  to  others.  He  only  frets  to  keep  him- 
self employed,  and  scolds  for  his  private  amusement. 


252  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Olivia.  I  don't  know  that;  but  I'm  sure,  on  some 
occasions,  it  makes  him  look  most  shockingly. 

Croaker  discovering  himself. 

Croaker.  How  does  he  look  now  ?  —  How  does  he 
look  now  ? 

Olivia.     Ah ! 

Leontine.     Undone ! 

Croaker.  How  do  I  look  now  ?  Sir,  I  am  your  very 
humble  servant.  Madam,  I  am  yours  !  What !  you 
are  going  off,  are  you  ?  Then,  first,  if  you  please  take 
a  word  or  two  from  me  with  you  before  you  go.  Tell 
me  first  where  you  are  going ;  and  when  you  have  told 
me  that,  perhaps  I  shall  know  as  little  as  I  did  before. 

Leontine.  If  that  be  so,  our  answer  might  but  in- 
crease your  displeasure,  without  adding  to  your  infor- 
mation. 

Croaker.  I  want  no  information  from  you,  puppy  ; 
and  you  too,  good  madam,  what  answer  have  you  got  ? 
Eh  !  (A  cry  without.  Stop  him.)  I  think  I  heard  a 
noise.  My  friend,  Honeywood  without — has  he  seized 
the  incendiary  ?  Ah,  no,  for  now  I  hear  no  more  on't. 

Leontine.  Honeywood  without!  Then,  sir,  it  was 
Mr.  Honeywood  that  directed  you  hither  ? 

Croaker.  No,  sir,  it  was  not  Mr.  Honeywood  con- 
ducted me  hither. 

Leontine.     Is  it  possible  ? 

Croaker.  Possible !  why  he 's  in  the  house  now, 
sir ;  more  anxious  about  me  than  my  own  son,  sir. 

Leontine.     Then,  sir,  he 's  a  villain. 

Croaker.  How,  sirrah !  a  villain,  because  he  takes 
most  care  of  your  father  ?  I  '11  not  bear  it.  I  tell  you 


THE    GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  253 

I  '11  not  bear  it.  Honey  wood  is  a  friend  to  the  family, 
and  I'll  have  him  treated  as  such. 

Leontine.  I  shall  study  to  repay  his  friendship  as  it 
deserves. 

Croaker.  Ah,  rogue,  if  you  knew  how  earnestly  he 
entered  into  my  griefs,  and  pointed  out  the  means  to 
detect  them,  you  would  love  him  as  I  do.  (A  cry  with- 
out, Stop  him.)  Fire  and  fury !  they  have  seized  the 
incendiary :  they  have  the  villian,  the  incendiary  in 
view.  Stop  him  !  stop  an  incendiary !  a  murderer  ? 
stop  him !  \_Exit. 

Olivia.    Oh,  my  terrors !  what  can  this  tumult  mean  ? 

Leontine.  Some  new  mark,  I  suppose,  of  Mr.  Honey- 
wood's  sincerity.  But  we  shall  have  satisfaction :  he 
shall  give  me  instant  satisfaction. 

Olivia.  It  must  not  be,  my  Leontine,  if  you  value 
my  esteem  or  my  happiness.  Whatever  be  our  fate, 
let  us  not  add  guilt  to  our  misfortunes  :  consider  that 
our  innocence  will  shortly  be  all  that  we  have  left  us. 
You  must  forgive  him. 

Leontine.  Forgive  him !  Has  he  not  in  every  in- 
stance betrayed  us  ?  Forced  me  to  borrow  money  from 
him,  which  appears  a  mere  trick  to  delay  us  ;  promised 
to  keep  my  father  engaged  till  we  were  out  of  danger, 
and  here  brought  him  to  the  very  scene  of  our  escape  ? 

Olivia.  Don't  be  precipitate.  We  may  yet  be 
mistaken. 

Enter  Post-boy,  dragging  in  Jarvis  ;  Honeywood  enter- 
ing soon  after. 

Post-boy.     Ay,  master,  we  have   him  fast  enough. 

22 


254  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Here  is  the  incendiary  dog.  I'm  entitled  to  the  re- 
ward ;  I'll  take  my  oath  I  saw  him  ask  for  the  money 
at  the  bar,  and  then  run  for  it. 

Honeywood.  Come,  bring  him  along.  Let  us  see 
him.  Let  him  learn  to  blush  for  his  crimes.  (Dis- 
covering  his  mistake.)  Death  !  what's  here  ?  Jarvis, 
Leontine,  Olivia !  What  can  all  this  mean  ? 

Jarvis.  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means :  that  I 
was  an  old  fool,  and  that  you  are  my  master — that's  all. 

Honeywood.     Confusion ! 

Leontine.  Yes,  sir,  I  find  you  have  kept  your  word 
with  me.  After  such  baseness,  I  wonder  how  you  can 
venture  to  see  the  man  you  have  injured ! 

Honeywood.  My  dear  Leontine,  by  my  life,  my 
honor 

Leontine.  Peace,  peace,  for  shame  ;  and  do  not  con- 
tinue to  aggravate  baseness  by  hypocrisy.  I  know  you, 
sir,  I  know  you. 

Honeywood.  Why,  won't  you  hear  me?  By  all 
that 's  just,  I  knew  not 

Leontine.  Hear  you,  sir !  to  what  purpose  ?  I  now 
see  through  all  your  low  arts ;  your  ever  complying 
with  every  opinion  ;  your  never  refusing  any  request ; 
your  friendship's  as  common  as  a  prostitute's  favors, 
and  as  fallacious  ;  all  these,  sir,  have  long  been  con- 
temptible to  the  world,  and  are  now  perfectly  so  to  me. 

Honeywood.  Ha  !  contemptible  to  the  world !  that 
reaches  me.  \_Aside. 

Leontine.  All  the  seeming  sincerity  of  your  profes- 
sions, I  now  find  were  only  allurements  to  betray  ;  and 
all  your  seeming  regret  for  their  consequence,  only  cal- 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  255 

culated  to  cover  the  cowardice  of  your  heart.     Draw 
villain ! 

Enter  Croaker,  out  of  breath. 

Croaker.  Where  is  the  villain  ?  Where  is  the  in< 
cendiary  ?  (Seizing  the  Postboy.)  Hold  him  fast,  the 
dog ;  he  has  the  gallows  in  his  face.  Come,  you  dogv 
confess,  confess  all,  and  hang  yourself. 

Postboy.  Zounds !  master,  what  do  you  throttle  me 
for? 

Croaker.  (Beating  him.)  Dog,  do  you  resist  ?  do 
you  resist  ? 

Postboy.  Zounds  !  master,  I  'm  not  he  ;  there 's  the 
man  that  we  thought  was  the  rogue,  and  turns  out  to 
be  one  of  the  company. 

Croaker.     How ! 

Honeywood.  Mr.  Croaker,  we  have  all  been  under 
a  strange  mistake  here ;  I  find  there  is  nobody  guilty ; 
it  was  all  an  error  —  entirely  an  error  of  our  own. 

Croaker.  And  I  say,  sir,  that  you  're  in  error ;  for 
there's  guilt  and  double  guilt,  a  plot,  a  damned  Jesuit- 
ical, pestilential,  plot,  and  I  must  have  proof  of  it. 

Honeywood.     Do  but  hear  me. 

Croaker.  What !  you  intend  to  bring  'em  off,  I  sup- 
pose ?  I  '11  hear  nothing. 

Honeywood.  Madam,  you  seem  at  least  calm  enough 
to  hear  reason. 

Olivia.     Excuse  me. 

Honeywood.  Good  Jarvis,  let  me  then  explain  it  to 
jou. 

Jarvis.  What  signifies  explanations  when  the  thing 
£  done  ? 


256  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Honeywood.  Will  nobody  hear  me?  Was  there 
ever  such  a  set,  so  blinded  by  passion  and  prejudice? 
(To  the  Postboy.)  My  good  friend,  I  believe  you  '11  be 
surprised  when  I  assure  you 

Postboy.  Sure  me  nothing  —  I'm  sure  of  nothing 
but  a  good  beating. 

Croaker.  Come  then  you,  madam,  if  you  ever  hope 
for  any  favor  or  forgiveness,  tell  me  sincerely  all  you 
know  of  this  affair. 

Olivia.  Unhappily,  sir,  I  'm  but  too  much  the  cause 
of  your  suspicions :  You  see  before  you,  sir,  one  that, 
with  false  pretences,  has  stept  into  your  family  to  be- 
tray it ;  not  your  daughter 

Croaker.     Not  my  daughter ! 

Olivia.  Not  your  daughter — but  a  mean  deceiver 
—  who  —  support  me,  I  cannot 

Honeywood.     Help,  she 's  going :  give  her  air. 

Croaker.  Ay,  ay,  take  the  young  woman  to  the 
air ;  I  would  not  hurt  a  hair  of  her  head,  whose  ever 
daughter  she  may  be  —  not  so  had  as  that  neither. 

[Exit  all  but  Croaker. 

Yes,  yes,  all's  out ;  I  now  see  the  whole  affair :  my 
son  is  either  married,  or  going  to  be  so,  to  this  lady, 
whom  he  imposed  upon  me  as  his  sister.  Ay,  certain- 
ly so ;  and  yet  I  do  n't  find  it  afflicts  me  so  much  as 
one  might  think.  There's  the  advantage  of  fretting 
away  our  misfortunes  beforehand,  —  we  never  feel 
them  when  they  come. 

Miter  Mss  Richland  and  Sir  Wittiam. 

Sir  William.  But  how  do  you  know,  madam,  that 
my  nephew  intends  setting  off  from  this  place  ? 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  257 

Miss  Richland.     My  maid  assured  me  he  was  come 
to  this  inn,  and  my  own  knowledge  of  his  intending  to 
leave  the  kingdom,  suggested  the  rest.     But  what  do 
I  see  ?  my  guardian  here  before  us  !     Who,  my  dear 
«ir,  could  have  expected  meeting  you  here  ?    To  what 
accident  do  we  owe  this  pleasure  ? 
Croaker.     To  a  fool,  I  believe. 
Miss  Richland.     But  to  what  purpose  did  you  come? 
Croaker.     To  play  the  fool. 
Miss  Richland.     But  with  whom  ? 
Croaker.     With  greater  fools  than  myself. 
Miss  Richland.     Explain. 

Croaker.  Why,  Mr.  Honeywood  brought  me  here 
to  do  nothing  now  I  am  here  ;  and  my  son  is  going  to 
be  married  to  I  do  n't  know  who,  that  is  here :  so  now 
you  are  as  wise  as  I  am. 

Miss  Richland.     Married !  to  whom,  sir  ? 
Croaker.     To  Olivia,  my  daughter,  as  I  took  her  to 
be  ;  but  who  the  devil  she  is,  or  whose  daughter  she  is, 
I  know  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon. 

Sir  William.  Then,  sir,  I  can  inform  you;  and, 
though  a  stranger,  yet  you  shall  find  me  a  friend  to 
your  family.  It  will  be  enough,  at  present,  to  assure 
you,  that  both  in  point  of  birth  and  fortune,  the  young 
lady  is  at  least  your  son's  equal.  Being  left  by  her 

father,  Sir  James  Woodville 

Croaker.  Sir  James  Woodville!  What!  of  the 
West? 

Sir  Wittiam.  Being  left  by  him,  I  say,  to  the  care 
of  a  mercenary  wretch,  whose  only  aim  was  to  secure 
har  fortune  to  himself  she  was  sent  to  France,  under 

22* 


258  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

pretence  of  education ;  and  there  every  art  was  tried 
to  fix  her  for  life  in  a  convent,  contrary  to  her  inclina- 
tions. Of  this  I  was  informed  upon  my  arrival  at 
Paris ;  and,  as  I  had  been  once  her  father's  friend,  I 
did  all  in  my  power  to  frustrate  her  guardian's  base  in- 
tentions. I  had  even  meditated  to  rescue  her  from  his 
authority,  when  your  son  stept  in  with  more  pleasing 
violence,  gave  her  liberty,  and  you  a  daughter. 

Croaker.  But  I  intend  to  have  a  daughter  of  my 
own  choosing,  sir.  A  young  lady,  sir,  whose  fortune, 
by  my  interest  with  those  that  have  interest,  will  be 
double  what  my  son  has  a  right  to  expect.  Do  you 
know  Mr.  Lofty,  sir? 

Sir  William.  Yes,  sir :  and  know  that  you  are  de- 
ceived in  him.  But  step  this  way,  and  I'll  convince 
you.  [  Croaker  and  Sir  William  seem  te  confer' 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeywood.  Obstinate  man,  still  to  persist  in  his 
outrage !  Insulted  by  him,  despised  by  all,  I  now  be- 
gin to  grow  contemptible  even  to  myself.  How  have 
I  sunk  by  too  great  an  assiduity  to  please !  How  have 
I  overtaxed  all  my  abilities,  lest  the  approbation  of  a 
single  fool  should  escape  me !  But  all  is  now  over : 
I  have  survived  my  reputation,  my  fortune,  my  friend- 
ships, and  nothing  remains  henceforward  for  me  but 
solitude  and  repentance. 

Miss  Richland.  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Honeywood,  that 
you  are  setting  off,  without  taking  leave  of  your 
friends  ?  The  report  is,  that  you  are  quitting  England  ? 
Can  it  be? 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN.  259 

Honeywood.  Yes,  madam  ;  and  though  I  am  so  un- 
happy as  to  have  fallen  under  your  displeasure,  yet, 
thank  Heaven  !  I  leave  you  to  happiness  —  to  one  who 
loves  you,  and  deserves  your  love  —  to  one  who  has 
power  to  procure  you  affluence,  and  generosity  to  im- 
prove your  enjoyment  of  it. 

Miss  Richland.  And  are  you  sure,  sir,  that  the  gen 
tleman  you  mean  is  what  you  describe  him  ? 

Honeywood.  I  have  the  best  assurances  of  it — his 
serving  me.  He  does  indeed  deserve  the  highest  hap- 
piness, and  that  is  in  your  power  to  confer.  As  for 
me,  weak  and  wavering  as  I  have  been,  obliged  by  all, 
and  incapable  of  serving  any,  what  happiness  can  I  find 
but  in  solitude  ?  what  hope,  but  in  being  forgotten  ? 

Miss  Richland.  A  thousand  :  to  live  among  friends 
that  esteem  you,  whose  happiness  it  will  be  to  be  per- 
mitted to  oblige  you. 

Honeywood.  No,  madam,  my  resolution  is  fixed. 
Inferiority  among  strangers  is  easy  ;  but  among  those 
that  once  were  equals,  insupportable.  Nay,  to  show 
you  how  far  my  resolution  can  go,  I  can  now  speak 
with  calmness  of  my  former  follies,  my  vanity,  my  dis- 
sipation, my  weakness.  I  will  even  confess,  that, 
among  the  number  of  my  other  presumptions,  I  had 
the  insolence  to  think  of  loving  you.  Yes,  madam, 
while  I  was  pleading  the  passion  of  another,  my  heart 
was  tortured  with  its  own.  But  it  is  over ;  it  was  un- 
worthy our  friendship,  and  let  it  be  forgotten. 


Miss  Richland.     You  amaze  me ! 


Honeywood.     But  you'll  forgive  it,  I  know  you  will ; 
since  the  confession  should  not  have  come  from  me 


260  THE    GOOD-XATURED    MAN. 

even  now,  but  to  convince  you  of  the  sincerity  of  my 
intention  of  —  never  mentioning  it  more.          [Going- 
Miss  Richland.     Stay,  sir,  one  moment  —  Ha !  he 
here 

Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Is  the  coast  clear  ?  None  but  friends  ?  I  have 
followed  you  here  with  a  trifling  piece  of  intelligence ; 
but  it  goes  no  farther ;  things  are  not  yet  ripe  for  a 
discovery.  I*  have  spirits  working  at  a  certain  board ; 
your  affair  at  the  Treasury  will  be  done  in  less  than 
— a  thousand  years.  Mum ! 

Miss  Richland.     Sooner,  sir,  I  should  hope. 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  I  believe  it  may,  if  it  falls  into 
proper  hands,  that  know  where  to  push  and  where  to 
parry ;  that  know  how  the  land  lies  — eh,  Honeywood? 

Miss  Richland.     It  li;i>  fallen  into  yours. 

Lofty.  Well,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense, 
your  thing  is  done.  It  is  done,  I  say,  that's  all.  I  have 
just  had  assurances  from  Lord  Neverout,  that  the  claim 
has  been  examined,  and  found  admissible.  Quietus  is 
the  word,  madam. 

Honeywood.  But  how?  his  lordship  has  been  at 
Newmarket  these  ten  days. 

Lofty.  Indeed !  Then  Sir  Gilbert  Goose  must  have 
been  most  damnably  mistaken.  I  had  it  of  him. 

Miss  Richland.  He !  why,  Sir  Gilbert  and  hie  fam- 
ily have  been  in  the  country  this  month. 

Lofty.  This  month !  it  must  certainly  be  so  —  Sir 
Gilbert's  letter  did  come  to  me  from  Newmarket,  so 
that  he  must  have  met  his  lordship  there  ;  and  so  it 


THE    GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  261 

came  about.  I  have  his  letter  about  me ;  I'll  read  it 
to  you.  (Taking  out  a  large  bundle.}  That's  from 
Paoli  of  Corsica,  that  from  the  Marquis  of  Squilachi. 
Have  you  a  mind  to  see  a  letter  from  Count  Ponia- 
towski,  now  King  of  Poland  ?  Honest  Pon  — (Search- 
ing.) Oh,  sir,  what,  are  you  here  too  ?  I'll  tell  you 
what,  honest  friend,  if  you  have  not  absolutely  delivered 
my  letter  to  Sir  William  Honeywood,  you  may  return 
it.  The  thing  will  do  without  him. 

Sir  William.  Sir,  I  have  delivered  it ;  and  must  in- 
form you,  it  was  received  with  the  most  mortifying  con- 
tempt. 

Croaker.  Contempt!  Mr.  Lofty,  what  can  that 
mean? 

Lofty.  Let  him  go  on,  let  him  go  on,  I  say,  You'll 
find  it  come  to  something  presently. 

Sir  William.  Yes,  sir ;  I  believe  you'll  be  amazed, 
if,  after  waiting  sometime  in  the  antechamber  —  after 
being  surveyed  with  insolent  curiosity  by  the  passing 
servants,  I  was  at  last  assured,  that  Sir  William  Hon- 
eywood knew  no  such  person,  and  I  must  certainly 
have  been  imposed  upon. 

Lofty.     Good !  let  me  die  ;  very  good.  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Croaker.  Now,  for  my  life,  I  can't  find  out  half  the 
goodness* of  it. 

Lofty.     You  can't  ?     Ha !  ha ! 

Croaker.  No,  for  the  soul  of  me :  I  think  it  was  as 
confounded  a  bad  answer  as  ever  was  sent  from  one 
private  gentleman  to  another. 

Lofty.  And  so  you  can  't  find  out  the  force  of  the 
message  ?  Why,  I  was  in  the  house  at  that  very  time. 


262  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Ha !  ha !  it  was  I  that  sent  that  very  answer  to  rny  own 
letter.  Ha !  ha ! 

Croaker.     Indeed !     How  ?  why  ? 

Lofty.  In  one  word,  things  between  Sir  William 
and  me  must  be  behind  the  curtain.  A  party  has  many 
eyes.  He  sides  with  Lord  Buzzard,  I  side  with  Sir 
Gilbert  Goose.  So  that  unriddles  the  mystery. 

Croaker.  And  so  it  does,  indeed ;  and  all  my  sus- 
picions are  over. 

Lofty.  Your  suspicions !  what,  then  you  have  been 
suspecting,  you  have  been  suspecting,  have  you  ?  Mr. 
Croaker,  you  and  I  were  friends  —  we  are  friends  no 
longer.  Never  talk  to  me.  It's  over ;  I  say,  it's  over. 

Croaker.  As  I  hope  for  your  favor,  I  did  not  mean 
to  offend.  It  escaped  me.  Do  n't  be  discomposed. 

Lofty.  Zounds !  sir,  but  I  am  discomposed,  and  will 
be  discomposed.  To  be  treated  thus!  Who  am  I? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  been  dreaded  both  by  ins  and 
outs  ?  Have  I  been  libelled  in  the  Gazetteer,  and 
praised  in  the  St.  James's ;  have  I  been  chaired  at 
Wildman's,  and  a  speaker  at  Merchant  Tailors'  Hall ; 
have  I  had  my  hand  to  addresses,  and  my  head  in  the 
print-shops, —  and  talk  to  me  of  suspects  ? 

Croaker.  My  dear  sir,  be  pacified.  What  can  you 
have  but  asking  pardon  ? 

Lofty.  Sir,  I  will  not  be  pacified  —  Suspects !  Who 
am  I  ?  To  be  used  thus  !  Have  I  paid  court  to  men 
in  favor  to  serve  my  friends,  the  lords  of  the  Treasury, 
Sir  William  Honey  wood,  and  the  rest  of  the  gang,  and 
*jalk  to  me  of  suspects  !  Who  am  I,  I  say,  who  am  I  ? 

Sir  Wittiam.     Since  you  are  so  pressing  for  an  an 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

swer,  I'll  tell  you  who  you  are  :  — A  gentleman  as  well 
acquainted  with  politics  as  with  men  in  power ;  as  well 
acquainted  with  persons  of  fashion  as  with  modesty ; 
with  lords  of  the  Treasury  as  with  truth ;  and,  with 
all,  as  you  are  with  Sir  William  Honeywood.  I  am 
Sir  William  Honeywood.  (Discovering  his  ensigns  of 
the  Bath.) 

Croaker.     Sir  William  Honeywood  ! 

Honeywood.     Astonishment !  my  uncle  !     (Aside.) 

Lofty.  So  then,  my  confounded  genius  has  been  all 
this  time  only  leading  me  up  to  the  garret,  in  order  to 
fling  me  out  of  the  window. 

Croaker.  What,  Mr.  Importance,  and  are  these 
your  works  ?  Suspect  you !  .You,  who  have  been 
dreaded  by  the  ins  and  outs ;  you  who  have  had  your 
hand  to  addresses,  and  head  stuck  up  in  print-shops  ? 
If  you  were  served  right,  you  should  have  your  head 
stuck  up  in  the  pillory. 

Lofty.  Ay,  stick  it  where  you  will ;  for  by  the 
Lord,  it  cuts  but  a  very  poor  figure  where  it  sticks  at 
present. 

Sir  William.  Well,  Mr.  Croaker,  I  hope  you  now 
see  how  incapable  this  gentleman  is  of  serving  you, 
and  how  little  Miss  Richland  has  to  expect  from  his 
influence. 

Croaker.  Ay,  sir,  too  well  I  see  it ;  and  I  can't  but 
say  I  have  had  some  boding  of  it  these  ten  days.  So 
I'm  resolved,  since  my  son  has  placed  his  affections  on 
a  lady  of  moderate  fortune,  to  be  satisfied  with  his 
choice,  and  not  run  the  hazard  of  another  Mr.  Lofty 
in  helping  him  to  a  better. 


264  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

Sir  William.  I  approve  your  resolution ;  and  here 
they  come  to  receive  a  confirmation  of  your  pardon 
and  consent. 

filter  Mrs.  Croaker,  Jarvis,  Leontine,  and  Olivia. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Where 's  my  husband  ?  Come,  come, 
lovey,  you  must  forgive  them.  Jarvis  here  has  been 
to  tell  me  the  whole  affair  ;  and  I  say,  you  must  for- 
give them.  Our  own  was  a  stolen  match,  you  know, 
my  dear ;  and  we  never  had  any  reason  to  repent  of  it. 

Croaker.  I  wish  we  could  both  say  so.  However,  thic 
gentleman,  Sir  William  Honeywood,  has  been  before- 
hand with  you  in  obtaining  their  pardon.  So,  if  the 
two  poor  fools  have  a  mind  to  marry,  I  think  we  can 
tack  them  together  without  crossing  the  Tweed  for  it. 

\_Joining  their  hands. 

Leontine.  How  blest  and  unexpected !  What,  what 
can  we  say  to  such  goodness  ?  But  our  future  obedi- 
ence shall  be  the  best  reply.  And  as  for  this  gentle- 
man, to  whom  we  owe 

Sir  William.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  interrupt  your 
thanks,  as  I  have  here  an  interest  that  calls  me. 
(  Turning  to  Honeywood.)  Yes,  sir,  you  are  surprised 
to  see  me ;  and  I  own  that  a  desire  of  correcting  your 
follies  led  me  hither.  I  saw  with  indignation  the 
errors  of  a  mind  that  only  sought  applause  from  others ; 
that  easiness  of  disposition  which,  though  inclined  to 
the  right,  had  not  the  courage  to  condemn  the  wrong. 
I  saw  with  regret  those  splendid  errors,  that  still  took 
name  from  some  neighboring  duty  ;  your  charity,  that 
was  but  injustice ;  your  benevolence,  that  was  but 


THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAI?.  2«0 

weakness ;  and  your  friendship  but  credulity.  I  saw 
with  regret,  great  talents  and  extensive  learning  only 
employed  to  add  sprightliness  to  error  and  increase 
your  perplexities.  I  saw  your  mind  with  a  thousand 
natural  charms  ;  but  the  greatness  of  its  beauty  served 
only  to  heighten  my  pity  for  its  prostitution. 

Honeywood.  Cease  to  upbraid  me,  sir ;  I  have  for 
some  time  but  too  strongly  felt  the  justice  of  your  re° 
preaches.  But  there  is  one  way  still  left  me.  Yes? 
sir,  I  have  determined  this  very  hour  to  quit  forever  a 
place  where  I  have  made  myself  the  voluntary  slave  of 
all,  and  to  seek  among  strangers  that  fortitude  which 
may  give  strength  to  the  mind,  and  marshal  all  its  dis- 
sipated virtues.  Yet,  ere  I  depart,  permit  me  to  solicit 
favor  for  this  gentleman  who,  notwithstanding  what 
has  happened,  has  laid  me  under  the  most  signal  obli- 
gations. Mr.  Lofty 

Lofty.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  resolved  upon  a  refor- 
mation as  well  as  you.  I  now  begin  to  find  that  the 
man  who  first  invented  the  art  of  speaking  truth,  was 
a  much  cunninger  fellow  than  I  thought  him.  And  to 
prove  that  I  design  to  speak  truth  for  the  future,  1 
must  now  assure  you,  that  you  owe  your  late  enlarge- 
ment to  another ;  as,  upon  my  soul,  I  had  no  hand  in 
the  matter.  So  now,  if  anv  of  the  company  has  a  mind 
for  preferment,  he  may  take  my  place ;  I'm  deter- 
mined to  resign.  [Exit. 

Honeywood.     How  have  I  been  deceived ! 

Sir  William.  No,  sir,  you  have  been  obliged  to  » 
kinder,  fairer  friend,  for  that  favor, —  to  Miss  Rich- 
land.  Would  she  complete  our  joy,  and  make  the  man 

23 


266  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN. 

she  has  honored  by  her  friendship  happy  in  her  love. 
I  should  then  forget  all,  and  be  as  blest  as  the  welfare 
of  my  dearest  kinsman  can  make  me. 

Miss  Ricfdand.  After  what  is  past,  it  would  be  but 
affectation  to  pretend  to  indifference.  Yes,  I  will  own 
an  attachment,  which  I  find  was  more  than  friendship. 
And  if  my  entreaties  cannot  alter  his  resolution  to  quit 
the  country,  I  will  even  try  if  my  hand  has  not  power 
to  detain  him.  [  Giving  her  hand. 

Honeywood.  Heavens !  how  can  I  have  deserved  all 
this?  How  express  my  happiness  —  my  gratitude? 
A  moment  like  this  overpays  an  age  of  apprehension. 

Croaker.  Well,  now  I  see  content  in  every  face ; 
but  Heaven  send  we  be  all  better  this  day  three  months ! 

Sir  William.  Henceforth,  nephew,  learn  to  respect 
yourself.  He  who  seeks  only  for  applause  from  with- 
out, has  all  his  happiness  in  another's  keeping. 

Honeywood.  Yes,  sir,  I  now  too  plainly  perceive 
my  errors ;  my  vanity,  in  attempting  to  please  all  by 
fearing  to  offend  any ;  my  meanness,  in  approving 
folly  lest  fools  should  disapprove.  Henceforth,  there 
fore,  it  shall  be  my  study  to  reserve  my  pity  for  real 
distress  ;  my  friendship  for  real  merit ;  and  my  love 
ior  her  who  first  taught  me  what  it  is  to  be  happy. 

\J2xeunt  omnes. 


THE    GOOD-NATURED   MAN.  267 


EPILOGUE.* 

SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  BITLKLBT. 

» 

As  puffing  quacks  some  caitiff  wretch  procure 

To  swear  the  pill  or  drop  has  wrought  a  cure ; 

Thus,  on  the  stage,  our  play-wrights  still  depend 

For  epilogues  and  prologues  on  some  friend, 

Who  knows  each  art  of  coaxing  up  the  town, 

And  makes  full  many  a  bitter  pill  go  down. 

Conscious  of  this,  our  bard  has  gone  aoout, 

And  teased  each  rhyming  friend  to  help  him  out  i 

An  epilogue !  things  can't  go  on  without  it ! 

It  could  not  fail,  would  you  but  set  about  it : 

*  Young  man,'  cries  one  (a  bard  laid  up  in  clover), 

'Alas !  young  man,  my  writing  days  are  over ! 

Let  boys  play  tricks,  and  kick  the  straw,  not  I ; 

Your  brother-doctor  there,  perhaps,  may  try.' 

'  What  I,  dear  sir  ?  '  the  Doctor  interposes, 

1  What,  plant  my  thistle,  sir,  among  his  roses ! 

No,  no,  I've  other  contests  to  maintain ; 

To-night  I  head  our  troops  at  Warwick-Lane. 

Go,  ask  your  mamager.' — <  Who,  me  ?     Your  pardon  \ 

Those  things  are  not  our  forte  at  Covent  Garden.' 

*The  author,  in  expectation  of  an  Epilogue  from  a  friend  at 
Oxford,  deferred  writing  one  himself  till  the  very  last  hour.  What 
is  here  offered,  owes  all  its  success  to  the  graceful  manner  of  the 
actress  who  spoke  it. 


268  THE    GOOD-NATURED   MAN. 

Our  Author  s  friends,  thus  placed  at  happy  distance, 
Give  him  good  words  indeed,  but  no  assistance. 
As  some  unhappy  wight,  at  some  new  play, 
At  the  pitrdoor  stands  elbowing  a  way, 
While  oft,  with  many  a  smile,  and  many  a  shrug, 
He  eyes  the  centre,  where  his  friends  sit  snug ; 
.His  simpering  friends,  with  pleasure  in  their  eyes, 
Sinks  as  he  sinks,  and  as  he  rises  rise : 
He  nods,  they  nod ;  he  cringes,  they  grimace ; 
But  not  a  soul  will  budge  to  give  him  place. 
Since,  then,  unhelp'd,  our  bard  must  now  conform 
'  To  'bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm,' 
Blame  where  you  must,  be  candid  where  you  can? 
And  be  each  critic  the  Grood-Natured  Man. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER; 

OK, 

THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT. 

A    COMEDY. 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer  was  represented  for  the  first  time,  March  15, 
1773.  It  was  very  successful,  and  became  a  stock  play.  Gold* 
smith  originally  entitled  itj  The  Old  House  a  New  Inn. 

DEDICATION. 

TO  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.  D. 

DEAR  SIK, —  By  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  you, 
I  do  not  mean  so  much  to  compliment  you  as  myself.  It 
may  do  me  some  honor  to  inform  the  public,  that  I  have  lived 
many  years  in  intimacy  with  you.  It  may  serve  the  inter- 
ests of  mankind  also  to  inform  them  that  the  greatest  wit 
may  be  found  in  a  character,  without  impairing  the  most  un, 
affected  piety. 

I  have,  particularly,  reason  to  thank  you  for  your  partiali- 
ty to  this  performance.  The  undertaking  a  comedy,  not 
merely  sentimental,  was  very  dangerous ;  and  Mr.  Colman, 
who  saw  this  piece  in  its  various  stages,  always  thought  it 
so.  However,  I  ventured  to  trust  it  to  the  public;  and 
though  it  was  necessarily  delayed  till  late  in  the  season.  J 
hare  every  reason  to  be  grateful. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 
Your  most  sincere  friend  and  admirer, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

MEN. 

Sir  Charles  Martow 

Young  Marloiu  (his  son] 

ffardcastle. 

Hastings. 

Tony  Lumpkin. 

Diggory. 

WOMEN. 

Mrs.  ffardcastle. 
Miss  ffardcastle. 
Miss  Neville. 
Maid. 

landlord,  Servants,  etc 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER; 

OR, 
THE  MISTAKES  OF   A  NIGHT. 


PROLOGUE. 

BY  DAVID   GARRICK,  ESQ. 

Enter  Mr.    Woodward,  dressed  in  black,  and  holding  a 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes. 

EXCUSE  me,  sirs,  I  pray, —  I  can  't  yet  speak, — 
I  'm  crying  now, —  and  have  been  all  the  week. 
'  'Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit,'  good  masters; 
'I  've  that  within,'  for  which  there  are  no  plasters ! 
Pray,  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I  'm  crying  ? 
The  Comic  Muse,  long  sick,  is  now  a-dying ! 
And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop ; 
For,  as  a  player,  I  can  't  squeeze  out  one  drop ; 
I  am  undone,  that 's  all, —  shall  lose  my  bread, — 
I  'd  rather, —  but  that 's  nothing, —  lose  my  head. 
When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 
Shuter  and  I  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 
To  her  a  mawkish  drab  of  spurious  breed, 
Who  deals  in  sentimentals,  will  succeed. 
Poor  Ned  and  I  are  dead  to  all  intents; 
We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  sentiments. 
Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up, 


272  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

• 

We  now  and  then  take  down  a  hearty  cup. 

What  shall  we  do  ?     If  Comedy  forsake  us, 

They'll  turn  us  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take  us. 

But  why  can't  I  be  moral  ?     Let  me  try : 

My  heart  thus  pressing  —  fix'd  my  face  and  eye  — 

With  a  sententious  look  that  nothing  means 

(Faces  are  blocks  in  sentimental  scenes), 

Thus  I  begin,  'All  is  not  gold  that  glitters, 

Pleasures  seem  sweet,  but  prove  a  glass  of  bitters. 

When  ign'rance  enters,  folly  is  at  hand : 

Learning  is  better  far  than  house  or  land. 

Let  not  your  virtue  trip :  who  trips  may  stumble, 

And  virtue  is  not  virtue  if  she  tumble.' 

I  give  it  up  —  morals  won't  do  for  me  ; 

To  make  you  laugh,  I  must  play  tragedy. 

One  hope  remains,  — hearing  the  maid  was  ill, 

A  Doctor  comes  this  night  to  show  his  skill ; 

To  cheer  her  heart,  and  give  your  muscles  motion, 

He,  in  Five  Draughts  prepared,  presents  a  potion, 

A  kind  of  magic  charm  ;  for,  be  assured, 

If  you  will  swallow  it,  the  maid  is  cured : 

But  desperate  the  Doctor's  and  her  case  is, 

If  you  reject  the  dose  and  make  wry  faces. 

This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives, 

No  pois'nous  drugs  are  mixed  in  what  he  gives. 

Should  he  succeed,  you'll  give  him  his  degree ; 

If  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee. 

The  college,  you,  must  his  pretensions  back, 

Pronounce  him  Regular,  or  dub  him  Quack. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  273 

ACT  FIKST. 
Scene  I.— A  CHAMBER  IN  AN  OLD-FASHIONED  HOUSE. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcasile  and  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're 
very  particular.  Is  there  a  creature  in  the  whole  coun- 
try but  ourselves,  that  does  not  take  a  trip  to  town  now 
and  then,  to  rub  off  the  rust  a  little  ?  There's  the  two 
Miss  Hoggs,  and  our  neighbor  Mrs.  Grigsby,  go  to 
take  a  month's  polishing  every  winter. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  and  bring  back  vanity  and  affecta- 
tion to  last  them  the  whole  year.  I  wonder  why  Lon- 
don cannot  keep  its  own  fools  at  home.  In  my  time, 
the  follies  of  the  town  crept  slowly  among  us,  but  now 
they  travel  faster  than  a  stage  coach.  Its  fopperies 
come  down  not  only  as  inside  passengers,  but  in  the 
very  basket. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Aye,  your  times  were  fine  times  in- 
deed :  you  have  been  telling  us  of  them  for  many  a 
long  year.  Here  we  live  in  an  old  rumbling  mansion, 
that  looks  for  all  the  world  like  an  inn,  but  that  we 
never  see  company.  Our  best  visitors  are  old  Mrs. 
Oddfish,  the  curate's  wife,  and  little  Cripplegate,  the 
lame  dancing  master ;  and  all  our  entertainment  your 
old  stories  of  Prince  Eugene  and  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough.  I  hate  such  old-fashioned  trumpery. 

Hardcastle.  And  I  love  it.  I  love  everything  that's 
old :  old  friends,  old  times,  old  manners,  old  books,  old 
wine  ;  and,  I  believe,  Dorothy,  (taking  her  hand,)  you'll 
own,  I've  been  pretty  fond  of  an  old  wife. 


274  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Mrs.  Hardcastk.  Lord,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  for- 
ever  at  your  Dorothys,  and  your  old  wives.  You  may 
be  a  Darby,  but  I'll  be  no  Joan,  I  promise  you.  I'm 
not  so  old  as  you'd  make  me,  by  more  than  one  good 
year.  Add  twenty  to  twenty  and  make  money  of  that. 

Hardcastle.  Let  me  see ;  twenty  added  to  twenty, 
makes  just  fifty  and  seven. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  It 's  false,  Mr.  Hardcastle ;  I  was 
but  twenty  when  I  was  brought  to-bed  of  Tony,  that  I 
had  by  Mr.  Lumpkin,  my  first  husband ;  and  he's  not 
come  to  years  of  discretion  yet. 

Hardcastle.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for  him. 
Ay,  you  have  taught  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  No  matter.  Tony  Lumpkin  has  a 
good  fortune.  My  son  is  not  to  live  by  his  learning. 
I  don't  think  a  boy  wants  much  learning  to  spend  fif- 
teen hundred  a-year. 

Hardcastle.  Learning,  quotha !  a  mere  composition 
of  tricks  and  mischief. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Humor,  my  dear,  nothing  but 
humor.  Come,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must  allow  the 
boy  a  little  humor. 

Hardcastk.  I  'd  sooner  allow  him  a  horse-pond.  If 
burning  the  footman's  shoes,  frightening  the  maids, 
and  worrying  the  kittens,  be  humor,  he  has  it.  It  was 
but  yesterday  he  fastened  my  wig  to  the  back  of  my 
chair,  and  when  I  went  to  make  a  bow,  I  popt  my  bald 
head  in  Mrs.  Frizzle's  face. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  I  am  to  blame  ?  The  poor 
boy  was  always  too  sickly  to  do  any  good.  A  school 
would  be  his  death.  When  he  comes  to  be  a  little 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  275 

stronger,  who  knows  what  a  year  or  two's  Latin  may 
do  for  him  ? 

Hardcastle.  Latin  for  him  !  A  cat  and  fiddle.  No, 
no ;  the  alehouse  and  the  stable  are  the  only  schools 
he  '11  ever  go  to. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the  poor 
boy  now,  for  I  believe  we  shan't  have  him  long  among 
us.  Anybody  that  looks  in  his  face  may  see  he  's  con- 
sumptive. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of  the 
symptoms. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.     He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hardcastle.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the  wrong 
way. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.     I'm  actually  afraid  of  his  lungs. 

Hardcastle.  And  truly  so  am  I ;  for  he  sometimes 
whoops  like  a  speaking  trumpet  —  ( Tony  hallooing  be- 
hind the  scenes.) — Oh,  there  he  goes  — a  very  consump- 
tive figure,  truly ! 

Enter  Tony,  crossing  the  stage. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Tony,  where  are  you  going,  my 
charmer  ?  Won't  you  give  papa  and  I  a  little  of  your 
company,  lovey? 

Tony.     I'm  in  haste,  mother ;  I  cannot  stay. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  shan't  venture  out  this  raw 
evening,  my  dear  ;  you  look  most  shockingly. 

Tony.  I  can't  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  Three  Pigeons 
expects  me  down  every  moment.  There's  some  fun 
going  forward. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  the  alehouse,  the  old  place;  I 
thought  so. 


276  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.      A  low,  paltry  set  of  fellows. 

Tony.  Not  so  low  neither.  There's  Dick  Mug- 
gins, the  exciseman,  Jack  Slang,  the  horse-doctor,  little 
Aminadab,  that  grinds  the  music-box,  and  Tom  Twist, 
that  spins  the  pewter  platter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappoint  them 
for  one  night  at  least. 

Tony.  As  for  disappointing  them,  I  should  not  so 
much  mind ;  but  I  can't  abide  to  disappoint  myself. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.     (Detaining  him.)    You  shan't  go. 

Tony.     I  will,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.     I  say  you  shan't. 

Tony.     We'll  see  which  is  the  strongest,  you  or  I. 

[Exit,  hauling  her  out. 

Hardcastle.  (Alone.)  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that 
only  spoil  each  other.  But  is  not  the  whole  age  in 
combination  to  drive  sense  and  discretion  out  of  doors  ? 
There's  my  pretty  darling,  Kate !  the  fashions  of  the 
times  have  almost  infected  her  too.  By  living  a  year 
or  two  in  town,  she  is  as  fond  of  gauze  and  French 
frippery  as  the  best  of  them. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence! 
drest  out  as  usual,  my  Kate.  Goodness !  what  a  quan- 
tity of  superfluous  silk  hast  thou  got  about  thee,  girl ! 
I  could  never  teach  the  fools  of  this  age,  that  the  indi- 
gent world  could  be  clothed  out  of  the  trimmings  of 
the  vain. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  know  our  agreement,  sir. 
You  allow  me  the  morning  to  receive  and  pay  visits, 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  277 

and  to  dress  in  niy  own  manner ;  and  in  the  evening  I 
put  on  my  housewife's  dress  to  please  you. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  remember  I  insist  on  the  terms 
of  our  agreement,  and,  by  the  by,  I  believe  I  shall 
have  occasion  to  try  your  obedience  this  very  evening. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  sir,  I  don't  comprehend 
your  meaning. 

Hardcastle.  Then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  I  ex- 
pect the  young  gentleman  I  have  choson  to  be  your 
husband  from  town  this  very  day.  I  have  his  father's 
letter,  in  which  he  informs  me  his  son  is  set  out,  and 
that  he  intends  to  follow  him  shortly  after. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Indeed !  I  wish  I  had  known 
something  of  this  before.  Bless  me,  how  shall  I  be- 
have. It's  a  thousand  to  one  I  shan't  like  him ;  our 
meeting  will  be  so  formal,  and  so  like  a  thing  of  busi 
ness,  that  I  shall  find  no  room  for  friendship  or  esteem. 

Hardcastle.  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I  never  will  con- 
trol your  choice ;  but  Mr.  Marlow,  whom  I  have  pitched 
upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  Sir  Charles  Marlow, 
of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so  often.  The  young 
gentleman  has  been  bred  a  scholar,  and  is  designed 
for  an  employment  in  the  service  of  his  country.  I 
am  told  he's  a  man  of  an  excellent  understanding. 

Miss  Hardcastle.     Is  he  ? 

Hardcastle.     Very  generous. 

Miss  Hardcastle.     I  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.     Young  and  brave. 

Miss  Hardcastle.     I'm  sure  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.     And  very  handsome. 
24 


278  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more, 
(kissing  his  hand)  he's  mine  —  I'll  have  him. 

Hardcastle.  And,  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he's  one  of  the 
most  bashful  and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all  the 
world. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Eh !  you  have  frozen  me  to  death 
again.  That  word  reserved  has  undone  all  the  rest  of 
his  accomplishments.  A  reserved  lover,  it  is  said,  al- 
ways makes  a  suspicious  husband. 

Hardcastle.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom  re- 
sides in  a  breast  that  is  not  enriched  with  nobler  vir- 
tues. It  was  the  very  feature  in  his  character  that 
first  struck  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  He  must  have  more  striking  feat- 
ures to  catch  me,  I  promise  you.  However,  if  he  be 
so  young,  so  handsome,  and  so  everything  as  you  men- 
tion, I  believe  he'll  do  still.  I  think  I  '11  have  him. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an  obstacle. 
It's  more  than  an  even  wager  he  may  not  have  you. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you  mor- 
tify one  so  ?  Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead  of  breaking 
my  heart  at  his  indifference,  I'll  only  break  my  glass 
for  its  flattery,  set  my  cap  to  some  newer  fashion,  and 
look  out  for  some  less  difficult  admirer. 

Hardcastle.  Bravely  resolved !  In  the  mean  timeT 
I  '11  go  prepare  the  servants  for  his  reception :  as  we 
seldom  see  company,  they  want  as  much  training  as  a 
company  of  recruits  the  first  day's  muster.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Alone.)  Lud,  this  news  of  papa's 
puts  me  all  in  a  flutter.  Young,  handsome  ;  these  he 
put  last,  but  I  put  them  foremost.  Sensible,  good-iia- 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  279 

tured ;  I  like  all  that.  But  then,  reserved  and  sheep- 
ish ;  that's  much  against  him.  Yet  can't  he  be  cured 
of  his  timidity  by  being  taught  to  be  proud  of  his  wife  ? 
Yes;  and  can't  I  —  but  I  vow  I'm  disposing  of  the 
husband,  before  I  have  secured  the  lover. 

Enter  Miss  Nevitte. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  glad  you  're  come,  Neville, 
my  dear.  Tell  me,  Constance,  how  do  I  look  this  even- 
ing ?  Is  there  anything  whimsical  about  me  ?  Is  it 
one  of  my  well-looking  days,  child  ?  am  I  in  face  today  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet  now  I  look 
again — bless  me! — sure  no  accident  has  happened 
among  the  canary  birds  or  the  gold  fishes  ?  Has  your 
brother  or  the  cat  been  meddling  ?  or  has  the  last  novel 
been  too  moving  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No  ;  nothing  of  all  this.  I  have 
been  threatened  —  I  can  scarce  get  it  out  —  I  hav« 
been  threatened  with  a  lover. 

Miss  Neville.     And  his  name 

Miss  Hardcastle.     Is  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.     Indeed ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.     The  son  of  Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.  As  I  live,  the  most  intimate  friend  of 
Mr.  Hastings,  my  admirer.  They  are  never  asunder.  I 
believe  you  must  have  seen  him  when  we  lived  in  town. 

Miss  Hardcastle.     Never. 

Miss  Nevitte.  He's  a  very  singular  character,  I  as- 
sure you.  Among  women  of  reputation  and  virtue,  he 
is  the  modestest  man  alive ;  but  his  acquaintance  give 
him  a  very  different  character  among  creatures  of  an- 
other stamp  —  you  understand  me. 


280  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  odd  character  indeed.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  manage  him.  What  shall  I  do !  Pshaw, 
think  no  more  of  him,  but  trust  to  occurrences  for  suc- 
cess. But  how  goes  on  your  own  affair,  my  dear? 
has  my  mother  been  courting  you  for  my  brother  Tony, 
as  usual  ? 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  just  come  from  one  of  our 
agreeable  tete-a-tetes.  She  has  been  saying  a  hundred 
tender  things,  and  setting  off  her  pretty  monster  as  the 
very  pink  of  perfection. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  her  partiality  is  such,  that 
she  actually  thinks  him  so.  A  fortune  like  yours  is 
no  small  temptation.  Besides,  as  she  has  the  sole  man- 
agement of  it,  I'm  not  surprised  to  see  her  unwilling 
to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  A  fortune  like  mine,  which  chiefly 
consists  in  jewels,  is  no  such  mighty  temptation.  But, 
at  any  rate,  if  my  dear  Hastings  be  but  constant,  I 
mukt!  no  doubt  to  be  too  hard  for  her  at  last.  How- 
ever, I  let  her  suppose  that  I  am  in  love  with  her  son  ; 
and  she  never  once  dreams  that  my  affections  are  fixed 
upon  another. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  good  brother  holds  out  stoutly. 
I  could  almost  love  him  for  hating  you  so. 

Miss  Neville.  It  is  a  good-natured  creature  at  bots 
torn,  and  I'm  sure  would  wish  to  see  me  married  to  any 
body  but  himself.  But  my  aunt's  bell  rings  for  our 
afternoon's  walk  round  the  improvements.  Allons ! 
Courage  is  necessary,  as  our  affairs  are  critical. 

Miss  ffardcastle.  Would  it  were  bed-fime,  and  all 
were  well.  [Exeunt* 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  281 

Scene  n.— AN  ALEHOUSE  ROOM. 

Several  shabby  fellows  with  punch  and  tobacco  ;  Tony  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  a  little  higher  than  the  rest,  a  mal- 
let in  his  hand. 

Omnes.     Hurrea !  hurrea  !  hurrea !  bravo ! 

First  Fellow.  Now,  gentlemen,  silence  for  a  song. 
The  Squire  is  going  to  knock  himself  down  for  a  song 

Omnes.     Ay,  a  song,  a  song! 

Tony.  Then  I'll  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  song  I 
made  upon  this  alehouse,  The  Three  Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let  schoolmasters  puzzle  their  brain 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning; 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 

Gives  genus  a  better  discerning. 
Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  gods, 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians, 
Their  quis,  and  their  quces,  and  their  quods, 

They  're  all  but  a  parcel  of  pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll 

When  methodist  preachers  come  down, 

A-preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 
I'll  wager  the  rascals  a  crown, 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinfull. 
But  when  you  come  down  with  your  pence, 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 
I'll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 

But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll 

Then  come,  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever. 


282  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER 

Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare. 
Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  wicgeons*, 

But  of  all  the  birds  in  the  air, 
Here's  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  torolL 

Omnes.     Bravo,  bravo! 

First  Fellow.  The  Squire  has  got  some  spunk  in 
him. 

Second  Fellow.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing,  bekeays 
he  never  gives  us  nothing  that's  low. 

Third  Fellow.  Oh,  damn  anything  that's  low,  I  can- 
not bear  it. 

Fourth  Fellow.  The  genteel  thing  is  the  genteel 
thing  any  time ;  if  so  be  that  a  gentleman  bees  in  a 
concatenation  accordingly. 

Third  Fellow.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it,  Master 
Muggins.  What  though  I  am  obligated  to  dance  a 
bear,  a  man  may  be  a  gentleman  for  all  that.  May 
this  be  my  poison,  if  my  bear  ever  dances  but  to  the 
very  genteelest  of  tunes ;  '  Water  Parted,'  or  *  The 
minuet  in  Ariadne.' 

Second  Fellow.  What  a  pity  it  is  the  Squire  is  not 
come  to  his  own.  It  would  be  well  for  all  the  publi- 
cans with  ten  miles  round  of  him. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  so  it  would,  Master  Slang.  I  'd 
then  show  what  it  was  to  keep  choice  of  company. 

Second  Fellow.  Oh,  he  takes  after  his  own  father 
for  that.  To  be  sure,  old  Squire  Lumpkin  was  the 
finest  gentleman  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on.  For  winding 
the  straight  horn,  or  beating  a  thicket  for  a  hare  or  a 
wench,  he  never  had  his  fellow.  It  was  a  saying  in 
the  place,  that  he  kept  the  best  horses,  dogs,  and  girls, 
in  the  whole  county. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  283 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  when  I  'm  of  age  I  '11  be  no  bastard, 
I  promise  you.  I  have  been  thinking  of  Bet  Bouncer  and 
the  miller's  gray  mare  to  begin  with.  But  come,  my 
boys,  drink  about  and  be  merry,  for  you  pay  no  reckon- 
ing. Well,  Stingo,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Enter  Landlord. 

Landlord.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a  post-chaise 
*t  the  door.  They  have  lost  their  way  upon  the  forest; 
and  they  are  talking  something  about  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be  the 
gentleman  that 's  coming  down  to  court  my  sister.  Do 
they  seem  to  be  Londoners  ? 

Landlord.  I  believe  they  may.  They  look  woundily 
like  Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and  I  '11 
set  them  right  in  a  twinkling.  [Exit  Landlord. 

Gentlemen,  as  they  may  n't  be  good  enough  company  for 
you,  step  down  for  a  moment,  and  I  '11  be  with  you  in 
the  squeezing  of  a  lemon.  [Exeunt  mob. 

Tony.  (Alone.)  Father-in-law  has  been  calling  me 
whelp  and  hound  this  half  year.  Now,  if  I  pleased,  I 
could  be  so  revenged  upon  the  old  grumbletonian.  But 
then  I  'm  afraid, —  afraid  of  what  ?  I  shall  soon  be  worth 
fifteen  hundred  a  year,  and  let  him  frighten  me  out  of 
that  if  he  can. 

Enter  Landlord,  conducting  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Marlow.  What  a  tedious,  uncomfortable  day  have  we 
had  of  it !  We  were  told  it  was  but  forty  miles  across 
the  country,  and  we  have  come  above  threescore. 


284  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Hastings.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccounta- 
ble reserve  of  yours,  that  would  not  let  us  inquire 
more  frequently  on  the  way. 

Marlow.  I  own,  Hastings,  I  am  unwilling  to  lay 
myself  under  an  obligation  to  every  one  I  meet ;  and 
often  stand  the  chance  of  an  unmannerly  answer. 

Hastings.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely 
to  receive  any  answer. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen.  But  I'm  told  you 
have  been  inquiring  for  one  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  these 
parts.  Do  you  know  what  part  of  the  country  you 
are  in? 

Hastings.  Not  in  the  least,  sir,  but  should  thank 
you  for  information. 

Tony.     Nor  the  way  you  came  ? 

Hastings.     No,  sir ;  but  if  you  can  inform  us 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the 
wad  you  are  going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the  road 
you  came,  the  first  thing  I  have  to  inform  you  is,  that 
• — you  have  lost  your  way. 

Marlow.     We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that. 

Tony.  Pray,  gentleman,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask 
the  place  from  whence  you  came  ? 

Marlow.  That's  not  necessary  towards  directing  us 
srhere  we  are  to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence ;  but  question  for  question  is  all 
fair,  you  know.  Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this  same 
Hardcastle  a  cross-grained,  old-fashioned,  whimsical 
fellow,  with  an  ugly  face :  a  daughter,  and  a  pretty 
son? 

Hastings.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman ;  but 
he  has  the  family  you  mention. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  285 

Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,  trapesing,  trolloping, 
talkative  maypole  ;  the  son,  a  pretty,  well-bred,  agree- 
able youth,  that  every  body  is  fond  of  ? 

Marlow.  Our  information  differs  in  this.  The 
daughter  is  said  to  be  well-bred,  and  beautiful;  the 
son  an  awkward  booby,  reared  up  and  spoiled  at  his 
mother's  apron-string. 

Tony.  He-he-hem !  — Then,  gentlemen,  all  I  have  to 
tell  you  is,  that  you  won't  reach  Mr.  Hardcastle's 
house  this  night,  I  believe. 

Hastings.     Unfortunate ! 

Tony.  It's  a  damned  long,  dark,  boggy,  dirty,  Dan- 
gerous way.  Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the  way  to 
Mr.  Hardcastle's  (winking  upon  the  Landlord),  Mr. 
Hardcastle's,  of  Quagmire  Marsh  —  you  understand 
me? 

Landlord.  Master  Hardcastle's  !  Lock-a-daisy,  my 
masters,  you're  come  a  deadly  deal  wrong!  When 
you  came  to  the  bottom  <3f  the  hill,  you  should  have 
crossed  down  Squash  Lane. 

Marlow.     Cross  down  Squash  Lane  ? 

Landlord.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  forward, 
till  you  came  to  four  roads. 

Marlow.     Come  to  where  four  roads  meet  ? 

Tony.  Ay ;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only  one 
of  them. 

Marlow.     O  sir,  you're  facetious. 

Tony.  Then  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go 
sideways,  till  you  come  upon  Crack-skull  common? 
there  you  must  look  sharp  for  the  track  of  the  wheel, 
and  go  forward  till  you  come  to  farmer  Murrain's  barn. 


286  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Coming  to  the  farmer's  barn,  you  are  to  turn  to  the 
right,  and  then  to  the  left,  and  then  to  the  right  about 
again,  till  you  find  out  the  old  mill 

Marlow.  Zounds,  man !  we  could  as  soon  find  out 
the  longitude. 

Hasting?.     What's  to  be  done,  Marlow  ? 

Marlow.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor  reception  ; 
though  perhaps  the  landlord  can  accommodate  us. 

Landlord.  Alack,  master,  we  have  but  one  spare 
bed  in  the  whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  my  knowledge,  that 's  taken  up  by 
three  lodgers  already.  (After  a  pause  in  which  the  rest 
seem  disconcerted.)  I  have  hit  it :  do  n't  you  think, 
Stingo,  our  landlady  could  accommodate  the  gentlemen 
by  the  fireside,  with  —  three  chairs  and  a  bolster  ? 

Hastings.     I  hate  sleeping  by  the  fireside. 

Marlow.  And  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and  a  bol- 
ster. 

Tony.  You  do,  do  you  ?  —  then,  let  me  see, — what 
if  you  go  on  a  mile  farther,  to  the  Buck's  Head ;  the 
old  Buck's  Head  on  the  hill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in 
the  whole  country. 

Hastings.  O  ho !  so  we  have  escaped  an  adventure 
for  this  night,  however. 

Landlord.  (Apart  to  Tony.)  Sure,  you  be  n't  send- 
ing them  to  your  father's  as  an  inn,  be  you  ? 

Tony.  Mum,  you  fool  you.  Let  them  find  that 
out.  ( To  them.)  You  have  only  to  keep  on  straight 
forward,  till  you  come  to  a  large  old  house  by  the  road 
side.  You'll  see  a  pair  of  large  horns  over  the  door. 
That's  the  sign.  Drive  up  the  yard,  and  call  stoutl) 
about  you. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  287 

Hastings.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The  ser- 
vants can't  miss  the  way  ? 

Tony.  No,  no :  but  I  tell  you  though  the  landlord 
is  rich,  and  going  to  leave  off  business  ;  so  he  wants  to 
be  thought  a  gentleman,  saving  your  presence,  he !  he ! 
he !  He  '11  be  for  giving  you  his  company  ;  and,  ecod, 
if  you  mind  him,  he'll  persuade  you  that  his  mother 
was  an  alderman,  and  his  aunt  a  justice  of  peace. 

Landlord.  A  troublesome  old  blade,  to  be  sure ; 
but  as  keeps  good  wines  and  beds  as  any  in  the  whole 
country. 

Marlow.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we 
shall  want  no  further  connection.  We  are  to  turn  to 
the  right,  did  you  say  ? 

Tony.  No,  no,  straight  forward ;  I'll  just  step  my- 
self, and  show  you  a  piece  of  the  wav.  (  To  the  Land- 
lord.) Mum ! 

Landlord.  Ah,  bless  your  heart,  for  a  sweet,  pleas- 
ant—  damned  mischievous  son  of  a  whore.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    SECOND. 

Scene  I. —  AN  OLD-FASHIONED  HOUSE. 

Enter  Hardcastle,  followed  by  three  or  four  awkward 
Servants. 

Hardcasile.  Well,  I  hope  you  are  perfect  in  the 
table  exercise  I  have  been  teaching  you  these  three 
days.  You  all  know  your  posts  and  your  places,  and 
can  show  that  you  have  been  used  to  good  company, 
without  ever  stirring  from  home. 


288  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Omnes.     Ay,  ay. 

Hardcastle.  When  company  comes,  you  are  not  to 
pop  out  and  stare,  and  then  run  in  again,  like  frighted 
rabbits  in  a  warren. 

Omnes.     No,  no. 

Hardcastle.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken  from 
the  barn,  are  to  make  a  show  at  the  side  table ;  and 
you,  Roger,  whom  I  have  advanced  from  the  plough, 
are  to  place  yourself  behind  my  chair.  But  you're  not 
to  stand  so,  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets.  Take 
your  hands  from  your  pockets,  Roger  —  and  from  your 
head,  you  blockhead,  you.  See  how  Diggory  carries 
his  hands.  They  're  little  too  stiff,  indeed,  but  that's 
no  great  matter. 

Diggory.  Ay,  mind  how  I  hold  them.  I  learned 
to  hold  my  hands  this  way,  when  I  was  upon  drill  for 
the  malitia.  And  so  being  upon  drill 

Hardcastle.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Diggory. 
You  must  be  all  attention  to  the  guests  ;  you  must  hear 
us  talk,  and  not  think  of  talking  ;  you  must  see  us 
drink,  and  not  think  of  drinking  ;  you  must  see  us  eat, 
and  not  think  of  eating. 

Diggory.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that 's  per- 
fectly unpossible.  Whenever  Diggory  sees  yeating 
going  forward,  ecod,  he  's  always  wishing  for  a  mouth- 
ful himself. 

Hardcastle.  Blockhead !  is  not  a  bellyful  in  the 
kitchen  as  good  as  a  bellyful  in  the  parlor?  Stay 
your  stomach  with  that  reflection. 

Diggory.  Ecod,  I  thank  your  worship,  I  '11  make  a 
shift  to  stay  my  stomach  with  a  slice  of  cold  beef  in 
the  pantry. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  289 

Hardcastle.  Diggory,  you  are  too  talkative.  Then, 
if  I  happen  to  say  a  good  thing,  or  tell  a  good  story  at 
table,  you  must  not  all  burst  out  a-laughing,  as  if  you 
made  part  of  the  company. 

Diggory.  Then,  ecod,  your  worship  must  not  tell 
the  story  of  the  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room  ;  I  can't 
help  laughing  at  that  —  he  !  he  !  he  !  —  for  the  soul  of 
me.  We  have  laughed  at  that  these  twenty  years  — 
ha !  ha !  ha. 

Hardcastle.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  The  story  is  a  good  one. 
Well,  honest  Diggory,  you  may  laugh  at  that ;  but 
still,  remember  to  be  attentive.  Suppose  one  of  the 
company  should  call  for  a  glass  of  wine,  how  will  you 
behave  ?  A  glass  of  wine,  sir,  if  you  please,  (  To  Dig- 
gory) —  Eh,  why  do  n't  you  move  ? 

Diggory.  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never  have  cour- 
age, till  I  see  the  eatables  and  drinkables  brought  upo' 
the  table,  and  then  I'm  as  bauld  as  a  lion. 

Hardcastle.     What,  will  nobody  move  ? 

First  Servant.     I'm  not  to  leave  this  pleace. 

Second  Servant.     I'm  sure  it's  no  pleace  of  mine. 

Third  Servant.     Nor  mine,  for  sartain. 

Diggory.     Wauns,  and  I'm  sure  it  canria  be  mine. 

Hardcastle.  You  numskulls !  and  so  while,  like 
your  betters,  you  are  quarrelling  for  places,  the  guests 
must  be  starved.  O  you  dunces  !  I  find  I  must  begin 
all  over  again But  do  n't  I  hear  a  coach  drive  in- 
to the  yard  ?  To  your  posts,  you  blockheads.  I'll  go 
in  the  meantime,  and  give  my  old  friend's  son  a  hearty 
welcome  at  the  gate.  \Exit  Hardcastle. 

Diggory.  By  the  elevens,  my  place  is  quite  gone 
out  my  head.  25 


290  SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER. 

Roger.     I  know  that  my  place  is  to  be  every  where. 
First  Servant.     Where  the  devil  is  mine  ? 
Second  Servant.     My  pleace  is  to  be  no  where  at  all, 
and  so  Ize  go  about  my  business. 

[Exeunt  Servants,  running  about  as  if 
frightened,  several  ways. 

Enter  Servant,  with  candles,  showing  in  Marlow  and 
Hastings. 

Servant.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  welcome !  Thig 
way. 

Hastings.  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day,  wel- 
come once  more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a  clean  room 
and  a  good  fire.  Upon  my  word,  a  very  well-looking 
house :  antique,  but  creditable. 

Marlow.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  mansion.  Having 
first  ruined  the  master  by  good  house-keeping,  it  at  last 
comes  to  levy  contributions  as  an  inn. 

Hastings.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be  taxed 
to  pay  all  these  fineries.  I  have  often  seen  a  good  side- 
board, or  a  marble  chimney-piece,  though  not  actually  put 
in  the  bill,  inflame  a  reckoning  confoundedly. 

Marlow.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in  all  places; 
the  only  difference  is,  that  in  good  inns  you  pay  dearly 
for  luxuries,  in  had  inr.s  you  are  fleeced  and  starved. 

Hastings.  You  have  lived  pretty  much  among  them. 
In  truth  I  have  been  often  surprised,  that  you  who  have 
seen  so  much  of  the  world,  with  your  natural  good  sense, 
and  your  many  opportunities,  could  never  yet  acquire  a 
requisite  share  of  assurance. 

Marlow      The  Englishman's  malady.      But  tell  me, 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  291 

Q-eorge,  where  could  I  have  learned  that  assurance  you 
talk  of?  My  life  has  been  chiefly  spent  in  a  college  or 
an  inn,  in  seclusion  from  that  lovely  part  of  the  creation 
that  chiefly  teach  men  confidence.  I  do  n't  know  that  I 
was  ever  familiarly  acquainted  with  a  single  modest  wo- 
mau,  except  my  mother. —  But  among  females  of  another 
class,  you  know 

Hastings.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  impudent  enough,, 
of  all  conscience. 

Marlow.     They  are  of  us,  you  know. 

Hastings.  But  in  the  company  of  women  of  reputation 
I  never  saw  such  an  idiot  —  such  a  trembler;  you  look 
for  all  the  world  as  if  you  wanted  an  apportunity  of  steal- 
ing out  of  the  room. 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  that 's  because  I  do  want  to  steal 
out  of  the  room.  Faith,  I  have  often  formed  a  resolution 
to  break  the  ice,  and  rattle  away  at  any  rate.  But  I 
do  n't  know  how,  a  single  glance  from  a  pair  of  fine  eyes 
has  totally  overset  my  resolution.  An  impudent  fellow 
may  counterfeit  modesty,  but  I  '11  be  hanged  if  a  modest 
man  can  ever  counterfeit  impudence. 

Hastings.  If  you  could  but  say  half  the  fine  things  to 
them  that  I  have  heard  you  lavish  upon  the  bar-maid  of 
an  inn,  or  even  a  college  bed-maker 

Marlow.  Why,  George,  I  can 't  say  fine  things  to 
them  —  they  freeze,  they  petrify  me.  They  may  talk  of 
a  comet,  or  a  burning  mountain,  or  some  such  bagatelle, 
but  to  me  a  modest  woman,  dressed  out  in  all  her  finery,  ic 
the  most  tremendous  object  of  the  whole  creation. 

Hastings.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  At  this  rate,  man,  how  can 
you  ever  expect  to  marry  ? 


SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER. 

Marlow.  Never;  unless  as  among  kings  and  princes 
my  bride  were  to  be  courted  by  proxy.  If,  indeed,  like 
an  Eastern  bridegroom,  one  were  to  be  introduced  to  a 
wife  he  never  saw  before,  it  might  be  endured.  But  to 
go  through  all  the  terrors  of  a  formal  courtship,  together 
with  the  episode  of  aunts,  grandmothers,  and  cousins,  and 
at  last  to  blurt  out  the  broad  staring  question  of  '  Mad- 
am, will  you  marry  me  ? '  No,  no,  that  's  a  strain  much 
above  me,  I  assure  you. 

Hastings.  I  pity  you.  But  how  do  you  intend  be- 
having to  the  lady  you  are  come  down  to  visit  at  the  re- 
quest of  your  father  ? 

Marlow.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies :  bow  very 
low ;  answer  yes  or  no  to  all  her  demands.  But  for  the 
rest,  I  do  n't  think  I  shall  venture  to  look  in  her  face  till 
I  see  my  father's  again. 

Hastings.  I  'm  surprised  that  one  who  is  so  warm  a 
friend  can  be  so  cool  a  lover. 

Marlow.  To  be  explicit,  my  dear  Hastings,  my  chief 
inducement  down  was  to  be  instrumental  in  forwarding 
your  happiness,  not  my  own.  Miss  Neville  loves  you, 
the  family  do  n't  know  you;  as  my  friend,  you  are  sure 
of  a  reception,  and  let  honor  do  the  rest. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Marlow  !  —  But  I  '11  suppress  the 
emotion.  Were  I  a  wretch,  meanly  seeking  to  carry  off 
a  fortune,  you  should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world  I 
would  apply  to  for  assistance.  But  Miss  Neville's  per- 
son is  all  I  ask,  and  that  is  mine,  both  from  her  deceased 
father's  consent,  and  her  own  inclination. 

Marlow.  Happy  man !  You  have  talents  and  art  to 
captivate  any  woman.  I  'm  doomed  to  adore  the  sex, 


SHE    STOOPS   TO    CONQUER.  293 

and  yet  to  converse  with  the  only  part  of  it  I  despise. 
This  stammer  in  my  address,  and  this  awkward,  unpre- 
possessing visage  of  mine  can  never  permit  me  to  soar 
above  the  reach  of  a  milliner's  'prentice,  or  one  of  the 
Duchesses  of  Drury  lane.  Pshaw !  this  fellow  here  to 
interrupt  us. 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily 
welcome.  Which  is  Mr.  Marlow  ?  Sir,  you  are  heartily 
welcome.  It  's  not  my  way,  you  see,  to  receive  my 
friends  with  my  back  to  the  fire.  I  like  to  give  them  a 
hearty  reception  in  the  old  style  at  my  gate.  I  like  to 
see  their  horses  and  trunks  taken  care  of. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  He  has  got  our  names  from  the 
servants  already.  (To  him.)  We  approve  your  caution 
and  hospitality,  sir.  (To  Hastings.)  I  have  been  think- 
ing, George,  of  changing  our  travelling  dresses  in  the 
morning.  I  am  grown  confoundedly  ashamed  of  mine. 

Hardcastle.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you'll  use  no  cere- 
mony in  this  house. 

Hastings.  I  fancy,  Charles,  you  're  right;  the  first 
blow  is  half  the  battle.  I  intend  opening  the  campaign 
with  the  white  and  gold. 

Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow  —  Mr.  Hastings  —  gentle- 
men, pray  be  under  no  restraint  in  this  house.  This  is 
Liberty-hall,  gentlemen.  You  may  do  just  as  you  please 
here. 

Marlow.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  •  campaign  too 
fiercely  at  first,  we  may  want  ammunition  before  it  is  over. 
I  think  to  reserve  the  embroidery  to  secure  a  retreat. 


294  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Hardcastle.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  MarW<v, 
puts  me  in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  when 
we  went  to  besiege  Denain.  He  first  summoned  the 

garrison 

Marlow.  Do  n't  you  think  the  venire  d'or  waistcoat 
will  do  with  the  plain  brown  ? 

Hardcastk.     He  first  summoned  the  garrison,  which 

might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men 

Hastings.  I  think  not :  brown  and  yellow  mix  but 
very  poorly. 

Hardcastk.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
he  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might  consist  ot 
about  five  thousand  men  — 

Marlow.  The  girls  like  finery. 
Hardcastle.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five  thou- 
sand men,  well  appointed  with  stores,  ammunition, 
and  other  implements  of  war.  Now,  says  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  to  George  Brooks,  that  stood  next  to  him 
—  you  must  have  heard  of  George  Brooks  —  'I'll 
pawn  my  dukedom,'  says  he,  '  but  I  take  that  garrison 
without  spilling  a  drop  of  blood.'  So  — 

Marlow.  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you  gave  us  a 
glass  of  punch. in  the  mean  time  ;  it  would  help  us  to 
carry  on  the  siege  with  vigor. 

Hardcastk.     Punch,  sir!      (Aside.)       This   is    the 
most  unaccountable  kind  of  modesty  I  ever  met  with. 
Marlow.     Yes,  sir,  punch.     A  glass  of  warm  punch 
after  our  journey,  will  be  comfortable.     This  is  Liber- 
ty-hall, you  know. 

Enter  Roger  with  a  cup. 
Hardcastk.     Here's  a  cup,  sir. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  295 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty- 
hall,  will  only  let  us  have  just  what  he  pleases. 

Hardcastle.  (Taking  the  cup.)  I  hope  you'll  find 
it  to  your  mind.  I  have  prepared  it  with  my  own 
hands,  and  I  believe  you'll  own  the  ingredients  are  tol- 
erable. Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me,  sir? 
Here,  Mr.  Marlow,  here  is  to  our  better  acquaintance. 

(Drinks.) 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  A  very  impudent  fellow  this  ; 
but  he's  a  character,  and  I  '11  humor  him  a  little.  Sir, 
my  service  to  you.  (Drinks.) 

Hastings.  (Aside.)  I  see  this  fellow  wants  to  give 
us  his  company,  and  forgets  that  he's  an  innkeeper, 
before  he  has  learned  to  be  a  gentleman. 

Marlow.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my  old 
friend,  I  suppose  you  have  a  good  deal  of  business  in 
this  part  of  the  county.  Warm  work,  now  and  then, 
at  elections,  I  suppose. 

Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  I  have  long  given  that  work 
over.  Since  our  betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient 
of  electing  each  other,  there  is  no  business  '  for  us  that 
sell  ale.' 

Hastings.  So,  then,  you  have  no  turn  for  politics, 
I  find. 

Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a  time, 
indeed,  I  fretted  myself  about  the  mistakes  of  govern- 
ment, like  other  people  ;  but,  finding  myself  every  day 
grow  more  angry,  and  the  government  growing  no  bet- 
ter, I  left  it  to  mend  itself.  Since  that,  I  no  more 
trouble  my  head  about  Hyder  Ally,  or  Ally  Cawn, 
than  about  Ally  Croaker.  Sir,  my  service  to  you. 

Hastings.  So  that  with  eating  above  stairs  and 
drinking  below,  with  receiving  your  friends  within  and 


296  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

amusing  them  without,  you  lead  a  good,  pleasant,  bust- 
ling life  of  it. 

Hardcasile.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that's  cer- 
tain. Half  the  differences  of  the  parish  are  adjusted 
in  this  very  parlor. 

Marlow.  (After  drinking.)  And  you  have  an  ar- 
gument in  your  cup,  old  gentleman,  better  than  any  in 
Westminster-hall. 

Hardcasile.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a  little 
philosophy. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  heard  of  an  innkeeper's  philosphy. 

Hastings.  So,  then,  like  an  experienced  general, 
you  attack  them  on  every  quarter.  If  you  find  their 
reason  manageable,  you  attack  it  with  your  philosophy  ; 
if  you  find  they  have  no  reason,  you  attack  them  with 
this.  Here 's  your  health,  my  philosopher.  (Drinks.) 

Hardcastk.  Good,  very  good,  thank  you  ;  ha !  ha ! 
ha!  Your  generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince 
Eugene,  when  he  fought  the  Turks  at  the  battle  of 
Belgrade.  You  shall  hear. 

Marlow.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I  believe 
it 's  almost  time  to  talk  about  supper.  What  has  your 
philosophy  got  in  the  house  for  supper  ? 

Hardcastk.  For  supper,  sir !  (A*ide.)  Was  ever 
such  a  request  to  a  man  in  his  own  house ! 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  supper,  sir ;  I  begin  to  feel  an 
appetite.  I  shall  make  devilish  work  to-night  in  the 
larder,  I  promise  you. 

Hardcastk.  (Axide.)  Such  a  brazen  dog  sure  never 
my  eyes  beheld.  (  To  him.)  Why,  really  sir,  as  for  supper 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  297 

I  can  't  well  tell.  My  Dorothy  and  the  cook-maid  settle 
these  things  between  them.  I  leave  these  kind  of  things 
entirely  to  them. 

Marlow.     You  do,  do  you  ? 

Hardcastle.  Entirely.  By  the  by,  I  believe  they  are 
in  actual  consultation  upon  what  's  for  supper  this  mo- 
ment in  the  kitchen. 

Marlow.  Then  I  beg  they  '11  admit  me  as  one  of 
their  privy-council.  It  's  a  way  I  have  got.  When  I 
travel  I  always  choose  to  regulate  my  own  supper.  Let 
the  cook  be  called.  No  offence,  I  hope,  sir. 

Hardcastle.  0,  no,  sir,  none  in  the  least;  yet  I  don't 
know  now,  our  Bridget,  the  cook-maid,  is  not  very  com- 
municative upon  these  occasions.  Should  we  send  for 
her,  she  might  scold  us  all  out  of  the  house. 

Hastings.  Let  's  see  your  list  of  the  larder,  then.  I 
ask  it  as  a  favor.  I  always  match  my  appetite  to  my 
bill  of  fare. 

Marlow.  (  To  Hardcastle,  who  looks  at  them  with  sur- 
prise.) Sir,  he  's  very  right,  and  it  's  my  way,  too. 

Hardcastle.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command  here. 
Here,  Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-night's  sup- 
per; I  believe  it  's  drawn  out. —  Your  manner,  Mr.  Has- 
tings, puts  me  in  mind  of  my  uncle,  Colonel  Wallop.  It 
was  a  saying  of  his,  that  no  man  was  sure  of  his  supper 
till  he  had  eaten  it. 

Enter  Roger. 

Hastings.  (Aside.)  All  upon  the  high  rope  !  His 
uncle  a  colonel !  we  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother  being 
ft  justice  of  the  peace.  But  let  's  hear  the  bill  of  fare. 

Marlow.     (Perusing.)     What  's  here  ?    For  the  first 


298  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

course ;  for  the  second  course  ;  for  the  dessert.  The 
devil,  sir,  do  you  think  we  have  brought  down .  the 
whole  Joiners'  Company,  or  the  Corporation  of  Bed- 
ford, to  eat  up  such  a  supper  ?  Two  or  three  little 
things,  clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hastings.     But  let's  hear  it. 

Marlow.  (Reading.)  '  For  the  first  course, —  at 
the  top  a  pig,  and  pruin-sauce.' 

Hastings.     Damn  your  pig,  I  say. 

Marlow.     And  damn  your  pruin-sauce,  say  I. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are 
hungry,  pig  with  pruin-sauce  is  very  good  eating. 

Marlow.     'At  the  bottom  a  calf's  tongue  and  brains.' 

Hastings.  Let  your  brains  be  knocked  out,  my  good 
sir,  I  don't  like  them. 

Marlow.  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a  plate  by  them- 
selves. 

Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  Their  impudence  confounds 
me.  (  To  them.)  Gentlemen,  you  are  my  guests,  make 
what  alterations  you  please.  Is  there  anything  else 
you  wish  to  retrench,  or  alter,  gentlemen  ? 

Marlow.  '  Item :  A  pork  pie,  a  boiled  rabbit  and 
sausages,  a  Florentine,  a  shaking  pudding,  and  a  dish 
of  tiff  —  taff  —  taffety  cream  !  ' 

Hastings.  Confound  your  made  dishes  ;  I  shall  be 
as  much  at  a  loss  in  this  house  as  at  a  green  and  yellow 
dinner  at  the  French  ambassador's  table.  I'm  for 
plain  eating. 

Hardcastle.  I'm  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have  no- 
thing you  like ;  but  if  there  be  any  thing  you  have  a 
particular  fancy  to 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  299 

Marlow.  Why,  really,  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so 
exquisite,  that  any  one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as  an- 
other. Send  us  what  you  please.  So  much  for  sup- 
per. And  now  to  see  that  our  beds  are  aired,  aiid  pro- 
perly taken  care  of. 

Hardcastle.  I  entreat  you'll  leave  all  that  to  me. 
You  shall  not  stir  a  step.  , 

Marlow.  Leave  that  to  you!  I  protest,  sir,  you 
must  excuse  me  :  I  always  look  to  these  things  myself. 

Hardcastle.  I  must  insist,  sir,  you'll  make  yourself 
easy  on  that  head. 

Marlow.  You  see  I'm  resolved  on  it.  (Aside.)  A 
very  troublesome  fellow  this,  as  ever  I  met  with. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  sir,  I'm  resolved  at  least  to  at- 
tend you.  (Aside.)  This  may  be  modern  modesty, 
but  I  never  saw  any  thing  look  so  like  old-fashioned 
impudence.  [Exeunt  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hastings.  (Alone.)  So  I  find  this  fellow's  civil- 
ities begin  to  grow  troublesome.  But  who  can  be  an- 
gry at  those  assiduities  which  are  meant  to  please  him  ? 
Ha !  what  do  I  see  ?  Miss  Neville,  by  all  that's  happy ! 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  Hastings  !  To  what  unex- 
pected good  fortune  —  to  what  accident,  am  I  to  as- 
cribe this  happy  meeting  ? 

Hastings.  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same  question,  as 
I  could  never  have  hoped  to  meet  my  dearest  Con- 
stance at  an  inn. 

Miss  Neville.  An  inn !  sure  you  mistake  :  my  aunt, 
my  guardian,  lives  here.  What  could  induce  you  to 
think  this  house  an  inn  ? 


300  SHE    STOUl'S    TO    CONQUER. 

Hastings.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with  whom  1 
came  down,  and  I,  have  been  sent  here  as  to  an  inn,  I 
assure  you.  A  young  fellow  whom  we  accidentally 
met  at  a  house  hard  by,  directed  us  hither. 

Miss  Nevitte.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of  my  hope- 
ful cousin's  tricks,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so 
often  ;  ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Hastings.  He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for  you  ?  he 
of  whom  I  have  such  just  apprehensions? 

Miss  Nevitte.  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  him, 
I  assure  you.  You'd  adore  him  if  you  knew  how 
heartily  he  despises  me.  My  aunt  knows  it  too,  and 
has  undertaken  to  court  me  for  him,  and  actually  be- 
gins to  think  she  has  made  a  conquest. 

Hastings.  Thou  dear  dissembler  !  You  must  know, 
my  Constance,  I  have  just  seized  this  happy  opportu- 
nity of  my  friend's  visit  here  to  get  admittance  into 
the  family.  The  horses  that  carried  us  down  are  now 
fatigued  with  their  journey,  but  they'll  soon  be  re- 
freshed ;  and,  then,  if  my  dearest  girl  will  trust  in  her 
faithful  Hastings,  we  shall  soon  be  landed  in  France, 
where  even  among  the  slaves  the  laws  of  marriage  are 
respected. 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  often  told  you,  that  though 
ready  to  obey  you,  I  yet  should  leave  my  little  fortune  be- 
hind with  reluctance.  The  greatest  part  of  it  was  left  me 
by  my  uncle,  the  India  director,  and  chiefly  consists  in 
jewels.  I  have  been  for  some  time  persuading  my  aunt 
to  let  me  wear  them.  I  fancy  I'm  very  near  succeed- 
ing. The  instant  they  are  put  into  my  possession,  you 
shall  find  me  ready  to  make  them  and  myself  yours. 

Hastings.     Perish  the  baubles !     Your  person  is  all 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  301 

I  desire.  In  the  meantime,  my  friend  Marlow  must 
not  be  let  into  his  mistake.  I  know  the  strange  re- 
serve of  his  temper  is  such,  that  if  abruptly  informed 
of  it,  he  would  instantly  quit  the  house  before  our  plan 
was  ripe  for  execution. 

Miss  Neville.     But  how  shall  we  keep  him  in  the 

deception?  —  Miss  Hardcastle  is  just  returned   from 

walking  —  What  if  we  still  continue  to  deceive  him  ? 

—  This,  this  way  -  [  They  confer. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  The  assiduities  of  these  good  people  tease 
me  beyond  bearing.  My  host  seems  to  think  it  ill 
manners  to  leave  me  alone,  and  so  he  claps  not  only  him- 
self, but  his  old-fashioned  wife  on  my  back.  They  talk 
of  coming  to  sup  with  us  too  ;  and  then,  I  suppose,  we 
are  to  run  the  gauntlet  through  all  the  rest  of  the  fam- 
ily. What  have  we  got  here  ? 

Hastings.  My  dear  Charles  !  Let  me  congratulate 
you  —  The  most  fortunate  accident !  — Who  do  you 
think  is  just  alighted  ? 

Marlow.     Cannot  guess. 

Hastings.  Our  mistresses,  boy,  Miss  Hardcastle  and 
Miss  Neville.  Give  me  leave  to  introduce  Miss  Con- 
stance Neville  to  your  .acquaintance.  Happening  to 
dine  in  the  neighborhood,  they  called  on  their  return 
to  take  fresh  horses  here.  Miss  Hardcastle  has  just 
atept  into  the  next  room,  and  will  be  back  in  an  instant. 
Was  n't  it  lucky  ?  eh  ! 

Marlow.  {Aside.)  I  have  been  mortified  enough  of 
all  conscience,  and  here  comes  something  to  complete 
my  embarrassment.  26 


302  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  was  n't  it  the  most  fortunate 
thing  in  the  world  ? 

Marlow.  Oh,  yes.  Very  fortunate  —  a  most  joyful 
encounter.  But  our  dresses,  George,  you  know,  are 
in  disorder  — What  if  we  should  postpone  the  happi- 
ness till  to-morrow  ?  —  to-morrow  at  her  own  house  — 
It  will  be  every  bit  as  convenient  —  and  rather  more 
respectful  —  To-morrow  let  it  be.  [  Offering  to  go. 

Hastings.  By  no  means,  sir.  Your  ceremony  will 
displease  her.  The  disorder  of  your  dress  will  show 
the  ardor  of  your  impatience.  Besides,  she  knows  you 
are  in  the  house,  and  will  permit  you  to  see  her. 

Marlow.  Oh,  the  devil !  How  shall  I  support  it  ? 
—  Hem  !  hem  !  Hastings  you  must  not  go.  You  are 
to  assist  me,  you  know.  I  shall  be  confoundedly  ridic- 
ulous. Yet  hang  it !  I'll  take  courage.  Hem ! 

Hastings.  Pshaw,  man !  it's  but  the  first  plunge, 
and  all's  over.  She's  but  a  women,  you  know. 

Marlow.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I  dread  most 
to  encounter. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle,  as  returned  from  walking. 

Hastings.  (Introducing  them.)  Miss  Hardcastle, 
Mr.  Marlow,  I'm  proud  of  bringing  two  persons  of 
such  merit  together,  that  only  want  to  know,  to  esteem 
each  other. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  Now  for  meeting  my 
modest  gentleman  with  a  demure  face,  and  quite  in  his 
own  manner.  (After  a  pause,  in  which  he  appears  very 
uneasy  and  disconcerted.)  I'm  glad  of  your  safe  arrival, 
sir.  I'm  told  you  had  some  accidents  by  the  way. 

Marlow.      Only  a  few,  madam.      Yes,  we  had  some 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  303 

Yes,  madam,  a  good  many  accidents,  but  should  be 
sorry — madam  —  or  rather  glad  of  any  accidents  — 
that  are  so  agreeably  concluded.  Hem  ! 

Hastings.  (To  him.)  You  never  spoke  better  in  your 
whole  life.  Keep  it  up,  and  I  '11  insure  you  the  vic- 
tory. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  'm  afraid  you  natter,  sir.  You 
that  have  seen  so  much  of  the  finest  company,  can  find 
little  entertainment  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  country. 

Marlow.  (  Gathering  courage.)  I  have  lived,  indeed, 
in  the  world,  madam ;  but  I  have  kept  very  little  com- 
pany. I  have  been  but  an  observer  upon  life,  madam, 
while  others  were  enjoying  it. 

Miss  Neville.  But  that,  I  am  told,  is  the  way  to 
enjoy  it  at  last. 

Hastings.  (To  him.)  Cicero  never  spoke  better. 
Once  more,  and  you  are  confirmed  in  assurance  for  ever. 

Marlow.  (  To  him.)  Hem  !  stand  by  me  then,  and 
when  I  'm  down,  throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  set  me  up 
again. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  observer,  like  you,  upon  life 
were,  I  fear,  disagreeably  employed,  since  you  must, 
have  had  much  more  to  censure  than  to  approve. 

Marlow.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  always  will, 
ing  to  be  amused.  The  folly  of  most  people  is  rathe* 
an  object  of  mirth  than  uneasiness. 

Hastings.  (To  him.)  Bravo,  bravo.  Never  spoke 
so  well  in  your  whole  life.  Well,  Miss  Hardcastle,  I  see 
that  you  and  Mr.  Marlow  are  going  to  be  very  good 
company.  I  believe  our  being  here  will  but  embarrass 
the  interview. 


304  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Marlow.  Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Hastings.  We  like 
your  company  of  all  things.  (To  him.)  Zounds, 
George,  sure  you  won't  go  ?  how  can  you  leave  us  ? 

Hastings.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil  conversation, 
so  we  '11  retire  to  the  next  room.  (  To  him.)  You  do  n't 
consider,  man,  that  we  are  to  manage  a  little  tete-a-tete 
of  our  own.  [Exeunt. 

Miss  Hardcastk.  (After  a  pause.)  But  you  have  not 
been  wholly  an  observer,  I  presume,  sir :  the  ladies,  I 
should  hope,  have  employed  some  part  of  your  ad- 
dresses. 

Marlow.  (Relapsing  into  timidity.)  Pardon  me, 
madam,  I — I — I — as  yet  have  studied — only  —  to 
— deserve  them. 

Miss  Hardcastk.  And  that,  some  say,  is  the  very 
worst  way  to  obtain  them. 

Marlow.  Perhaps  so,  madam.  But  I  love  to  con- 
verse only  with  the  more  grave  and  sensible  part  of 
the  sex  —  But  I  'm  afraid  I  grow  tiresome. 

Miss  Hardcastk.  Not  at  all,  sir ;  there  is  nothing 
I  like  so  much  as  grave  conversation  myself  ;  I  could 
hear  it  for  ever.  Indeed  I  have  often  been  surprised 
how  a  man  of  sentiment  could  ever  admire  those  light, 
airy  pleasures,  where  nothing  reaches  the  heart. 

Marlow.  It 's a  disease of  the  mind,  madam. 

in  the  variety  of  tastes  there  must  be  some  who,  want- 
ing a  relish for urn — u — urn — 

Miss  Hardcastk.  I  understand  you,  sir.  There  must 
be  some  who,  wanting  a  relish  for  refined  pleasures, 
pretend  to  despise  what  they  are  incapable  of 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  305 

Marlow.  My  meaning,  madam,  but  infinitely  better 
expressed.  And  I  can  't  help  observing a 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  Who  could  ever  suppose 
this  fellow  impudent  upon  some  occasions!  (To  him.) 
You  were  going  to  observe,  sir, 

Marlow.  I  was  observing,  madam, —  I  protest,  mad- 
am, I  forget  what  I  was  going  to  observe. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  I  vow  and  so  do  I.  (To 
him.)  You  were  observing,  sir,  that  in  this  age  of  hy- 
pocrisy,—  something  about  hypocrisy,  sir. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  In  this  age  of  hypocrisy  there 
are  few  who,  upon  strict  inquiry,  do  not  —  a  —  a 

Miss  Hardcastle.     I  understand  you  perfectly,  sir. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  Egad!  and  that  's  more  than  I 
do  myself. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  mean  that,  in  this  hypocritical 
age,  there  are  a  few  who  do  not  condemn  in  public  what 
they  practice  in  private,  and  think  they  pay  every  debt 
to  virtue  when  they  praise  it. 

Marlow.  True,  madam;  those  who  have  most  virtue 
in  their  mouths  have  least  of  it  in  their  bosoms.  But 
I  'm  sure  I  tire  you,  madam. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least,  sir;  there's  some- 
thing so  agreeable  and  spirited  in  your  manner,  such  life 
and  force, —  pray,  sir,  go  on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam,  I  was  saying that  there 

are  some  occasions  —  when  a  total  want  of  courage,  mad- 
am, destroys  all  the and  puts  us -upon a — 

£t  -  til  "•••• '     ••  ' 

Mis€  Hardcastle      I  agree  with  you  entirely ;  a  wan- 
26* 


306  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

of  courage  upon  some  occasions,  assumes  the  appear- 
ance of  ignorance,  and  betrays  us  when  we  most  want 
to  excel.  I  beg  you  '11  proceed.  • 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  Morally  speaking,  madam 
—  but  I  see  Miss  Neville  expecting  us  in  the  next 
room.  I  would  not  intrude  for  the  world. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  sir,  I  never  was  more 
agreeably  entertained  in  all  my  life.  Pray  go  on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam,  I  was But  she  beckons 

us  to  join  her.  Madam,  shall  I  do  myself  the  honor 
to  attend  you  ? 

Mss  Hardcastle.     Well,  then,  I  '11  follow. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  This  pretty  smooth  dialogue 
has  done  for  me.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Alone.)  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Was  there 
ever  such  a  sober,  sentimental  interview  ?  I  'm  certain 
he  scarce  looked  in  my  face  the  whole  time.  Yet  the 
fellow,  but  for  his  unaccountable  bashfulness,  is  pretty 
well  too.  He  has  good  sense,  but  then  so  buried  in 
his  fears,  that  it  fatigues  one  more  than  ignorance.  If 
I  could  teach  him  a  little  confidence,  it  would  be  doing 
somebody  that  I  know  of  a  piece  of  service.  But  who 
is  that  somebody.  That,  faith,  is  a  question  I  can 
scarce  answer.  [Exit. 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville,  followed  by  Mrs.  Hard" 
castle  and  Hastings. 

Tony.  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  cousin  Con  ?  I 
wonder  you  're  not  ashamed  to  be  so  very  engaging. 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  cousin,  one  may  spe*ik  to 
one's  own  relations,  and  not  be  to  blame. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.          30? 

Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  relation  you 
want  to  make  me  though  ;  but  it  won't  do.  I  tell  you, 
cousin  Con,  ib  won't  do  ;  so  I  beg  you  '11  keep  your  dis- 
tance —  I  want  no  nearer  relationship. 

[She  follows,  coquetting  him  to  the  back  scene. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings,  you 
are  very  entertaining.  There  's  nothing  in  the  world 
I  love  to  talk  of  so  much  as  London,  and  the  fashions  ; 
though  I  was  never  there  myself. 

Hastings.  Never  there  !  You  amaze  me !  From  your 
air  and  manner,  I  concluded  you  had  been  bred  all  your 
life  either  at  Ranelagh,  St.  James's  or  Tower  Wharf. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  sir,  you  're  only  pleased  to  say 
so.  We  country  persons  can  have  no  manner  at  all. 
I  'rn  in  love  with  the  town,  and  that  serves  to  raise  me 
above  some  of  our  neighboring  rustics ;  but  who  can 
have  a  manner,  that  has  never  seen  the  Pantheon,  the 
Grotto  Gardens,  the  Borough,  and  such  places,  where 
the  nobility  chiefly  resort?  All  I  can  do  is  to  enjoy 
London  at  second-hand.  I  take  care  to  know  every 
tete-a-tete  from  the  Scandalous  Magazine,  and  have 
all  the  fashions,  as  they  come  out,  in  a  letter  from  the 
two  Miss  Rickets  of  Crooked  Lane.  Pray,  how  do 
you  like  this  head,  Mr.  Hastings  ? 

Hastings.  Extremely  elegant  and  degagee,  upon  my 
word,  madam.  Your  friseur  is  a  Frenchman,  I  sup- 
pose? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  I  dressed  it  myself  from 
a  print  in  the  Ladies'  Memorandum-book  for  the  last 
year. 

Hastings.  Indeed !  Such  a  head  in  a  side-box  at  the 


30£  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

play-house,  would  draw  as  many  gaaers  as  my  Lady 
Mayoress  at  a  city  ball. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began, 
there  is  no  such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  woman ;  so 
one  must  dress  a  little  particular,  or  one  may  escape 
in  the  crowd. 

Hastings.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case,  madam, 
in  any  dress.  (Bowing.) 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yet  what  signifies  my  dressing, 
when  I  have  such  a  piece  of  antiquity  by  my  side  as 
Mr.  Hardcastle  ?  all  I  can  say  will  never  argue  down 
a  single  button  from  his  clothes.  I  have  often  wanted 
him  to  throw  off  his  great  flaxen  wig,  and  where  he 
was  bald,  to  plaster  it  over,  like  my  Lord  Pately,  with 
powder. 

Hastings.  You  are  right,  madam ;  for,  as  among 
the  ladies  there  are  none  ugly,  so  among  the  men  there 
are  none  old. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  But  what  do  you  think  his  answer 
was  ?  Why,  with  his  usual  Gothic  vivacity,  he  said  I 
only  wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  wig  to  convert  it  into 
a  te"te  for  my  own  wearing. 

Hastings.  Intolerable !  At  your  age  you  may  wear 
what  you  please,  and  it  must  become  you. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do  you 
take  to  be  the  most  fashionable  age  about  town  ? 

Hastings.  Some  time  ago,  forty  was  all  the  mode ; 
but  I'm  told  the  ladies  intend  to  bring  up  fifty  for  the 
ensuing  winter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Seriously  ?  Then  I  shall  be  too 
young  for  the  fashion. 

Hastings.    No  lady  begins  now  to  put  on  jewels  till 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.          309 

she's  past  forty.  For  instance,  miss  there,  in  a  polite 
circle,  would  be  considered  as  a  child — a  mere  maker 
of  samplers. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  yet,  my  niece  thinks  herself 
as  much  a  woman,  and  is  as  fond  of  jewels,  as  the  old- 
est of  us  all. 

Hastings.  Your  niece,  is  she?  And  that  young 
gentleman — a  brother  of  yours,  I  should  presume  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  son,  sir.  They  are  contracted 
to  each  other.  Observe  their  little  sports.  They  fall  in 
and  out  ten  times  a-day,  as  if  they  were  man  and  wife 
already.  {To  them.)  Well,  Tony,  child,  what  soft 
things  are  you  saying  to  your  cousin  Constance  this 
evening  ? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things  ;  but  that 
it's  very  hard  to  be  followed  about  so.  Ecod !  I've  not 
a  place  in  the  house  now  that's  left  to  myself,  but  the 
stable. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Never  mind  him,  Con,  my  dear : 
he's  in  another  story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Neville.  There's  something  generous  in  my 
cousin's  manner.  He  falls  out  before  faces,  to  be  for- 
given in  private. 

Tony.     That's  a  damned  confounded — crack. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ah  !  he's  a  sly  one.  Do  n't  you 
think  they're  like  each  other  about  the  mouth,  Mr. 
Hastings  ?  The  Blenkinsop  mouth  to  a  T.  They're 
of  a  size,  too.  Back  to  back,  my  pretties,  that  Mr. 
Hastings  may  see  you.  Come,  Tony. 

Tony.     You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I  tell  you. 

(Measuring.} 

Miss  Neville.  0  lud !  he  has  almost  cracked  my  head 


310  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  the  monster !  for  shame,  Tony 
You  a  man,  and  behave  so ! 

Tony.  If  I'm  a  man,  let  me  have  my  fortin.  Ecod. 
I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all  that 
I'm  to  get  for  the  pains  I  have  taken  in  your  educa- 
tion ?  I  that  have  rocked  you  in  your  cradle,  and  fed 
that  pretty  mouth  with  a  spoon  ?  Did  not  I  work  that 
waistcoat  to  make  you  genteel  ?  Did  not  I  prescribe 
for  you  every  day,  and  weep  while  the  receipt  was 
operating  ? 

Tony.  Ecod !  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for  you  have 
been  dosing  me  ever  since  I  was  born.  I  have  gone 
through  every  receipt  in  the  Complete  Housewife  ten 
times  over  ;  and  you  have  thoughts  of  coursing  me 
through  Quincey  next  spring.  But,  Ecod  !  I  tell  you, 
I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  n't  it  all  for  your  good,  viper  ? 
Was  n't  it  all  for  your  good  ? 

Tony.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  and  my  good  alone, 
then.  Snubbing  this  way  when  I'm  in  spirits !  If  I'm 
to  have  any  good,  let  it  come  of  itself ;  not  to  keep 
dinging  it,  dinging  it  into  one  so. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  That's  false  ;  I  never  see  you  when 
you're  in  spirits.  No,  Tony,  you  then  go  to  the  ale- 
house or  kennel.  I'm  never  to  be  delighted  with  your 
agreeable  wild  notes,  unfeeling  monster! 

Tony.  Ecod!  mamma,  your  own  notes  are  the 
wildest  of  the  two. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  ever  the  like  ?  But  I  see  he 
wants  to  break  my  heart;  I  see  he  does. 

Hastings.     Dear  madam,  permit  me  to  lecture  the 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  311 

young  gentleman  a  little.     I'm  certain  I  can  persuade 
him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.    Well,  I  must  retire.     Come,  Con- 
stance, my  love.  You  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  the  wretched- 
ness of  my  situation  :  was  ever  poor  woman  so  plagued 
with  a  dear,  sweet,  pretty,  provoking,  uudutiful  boy ! 
[Exeunt  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Miss  Neville. 

Tony.     (Singing.) 

There  was  a  young  man  riding  by, 
And  fain  would  have  his  will. 

Rang  do  didlo  dee. 

Do  n't  mind  her.  Let  her  cry.  It's  the  comfort  of 
her  heart.  I  have  seen  her  and  sister  cry  over  a  book 
for  an  hour  together ;  and  they  said  they  liked  the 
book  the  better  the  more  it  made  them  cry. 

Hastings.  Then  you're  no  friend  to  the  ladies,  I 
find,  my  pretty  young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.     That's  as  I  find  'urn. 

Hastings.  Not  to  hear  of  your  mother's  choosing, 
I  dare  answer  ?  And  yet  she  appears  to  me  a  pretty, 
well-tempered  girl. 

Tony.     That's  because  you  do  n't  know  her  as  well 

as  I.  Ecod !  I  know  every  inch  about  her  ;  and  there's 

not  a  more  bitter  cantanckerous  toad  in  all  Christendom. 

Hastings.  (Aside.)  Pretty  encouragement  for  a  lover. 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of  that. 
She  has  as  many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a  thicket,  or  a  colt 
the  first  day's  breaking. 

Hastings.     To  me  she  appears  sensible  and  silent. 


312  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  when  she's  with 
her  playmates,  she's  as  loud  as  a  hog  in  a  gate. 

Hastings.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about  her 
that  charms  me. 

Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she  kick? 
up,  and  you're  flung  in  a  ditch. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a  little 
beauty.  Yes,  you  must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony.  Bandbox !  She's  all  a  made-up  thing,  mun. 
Ah !  could  you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer  of  these  parts,  you 
might  then  talk  of  beauty.  Ecod !  she  has  two  eyes  as 
black  as  sloes,  and  cheeks  as  broad  and  red  as  a  pulpit 
cushion.  She'd  make  two  of  she. 

Hastings.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that 
would  take  this  bitter  bargain  off  your  hands  ? 

Tony.     Anan ! 

Hastings.  Would  you  thank  him  that  would  take 
Miss  Neville,  and  leave  you  to  happiness  and  your 
dear  Betsey  ? 

Tony.  Ay  ;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend  —  for 
who  would  take  her  ? 

Hastings.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I'll  en- 
gage to  whip  her  off  to  France,  and  you  shall  never 
hear  more  of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you !  Ecod  I  will  to  the  last  drop 
of  my  blood.  I'll  clap  a  pair  of  horses  to  your  chaise 
that  shall  trundle  you  off  in  a  twinkling,  and  may  be 
get  you  a  part  of  her  fortin  besides,  in  jewels,  that 
you  little  dream  of. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Squire,  this  looks  like  a  lad  o£ 
spirit. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  313 

Tony.  Come  along,  then,  and  you  shall  see  more  of 
my  spirit  before  you  have  done  with  me.      (Singing.) 

We  are  the  boys 

That  fears  no  noise, 

Where  the  thundering  cannons  roar. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT   THIRD. 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  WHAT  could  my  old  friend  Sir  Charles 
mean  by  recommending  his  son  as  the  modestest  young 
man  in  town  ?  To  me  he  appears  the  most  impudent 
piece  of  brass  that  ever  spoke  with  a  tongue.  He  has 
taken  possession  of  the  easy  chair  by  the  fire-side  al- 
ready. He  took  off  his  boots  in  the  parlor,  and  de- 
sired me  to  see  them  taken  care  of.  I'm  desirous  to 
know  how  his  impudence  affects  my  daughter.  She 
will  certainly  be  shocked  at  it. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle,  plainly  dressed. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  my  Kate,  I  see  you  have  changed 
your  dress,  as  I  bid  you ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  there  was 
no  great  occasion. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  find  such  a  pleasure,  sir,  in 
obeying  your  commands,  that  I  take  care  to  observe 
them  without  ever  debating  their  propriety. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet,  Kate,  I  sometimes  give  you 
'  27 


314  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

some  cause,  particularly  when  I  recommended  my 
modest  gentleman  to  you  as  a  lover  to-day. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  taught  me  to  expect  some- 
thing extraordinary,  and  I  find  the  original  exceeds 
the  description. 

Hardcastle.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life  I 
He  has  quite  confounded  all  my  faculties. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it ;  and 
a  man  of  the  world,  too ! 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad  —  what  a 
fool  was  I,  to  think  a  young  man  could  learn  modesty 
by  travelling.  He  might  as  soon  learn  wit  at  a  mas- 
querade. 

Miss  Hardcastle.     It  seems  all  natural  to  him. 

Hardcastle.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  company 
And  a  French  dancing-master. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sure  you  mistake,  papa.  A  French 
dancing-master  could  never  have  taught  him  that  t'inid 
look — that  awkward  address — that  bashful  manner. 

Hardcastle.     Whose  look  ?  whose  manner,  child  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Mario w's  :  his  mauvaise  ho?ite, 
his  timidity,  struck  me  at  the  first  sight. 

Hardcastle.  Then  your  first  sight  deceived  you : 
for  I  think  him  one  of  the  most  brazen  first  sights  that 
ever  astonished  my  senses. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sure,  sir,  you  rally !  I  never  saw 
any  one  so  iiioclost. 

Hardcastle.  And  can  you  be  serious  ?  I  never  saw 
such  a  bouncing,  swaggering  puppy  since  I  was  born. 
Bully  Dawson  was  buf  a  fool  to  him. 

Mias  Hardcastle.   Surprising !   He  met  me  with  a  re 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  315 

spectful  bow,  a  stammering  voice,  and  a  look  fixed  on 
the  ground. 

Hardcasile.  He  met  me  with  a  loud  voice,  a  lordly 
air,  and  a  familiarity  that  made  "my  blood  freeze  again. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence  and 
respect ;  censured  the  manners  of  the  age  ;  admired  the 
prudence  of  girls  that  never  laughed,  tired  me  with 
apologies  for  being  tiresome,  then  left  the  room  with  a 
bow  and  '  Madam,  I  would  not  for  the  world  detain  you.' 

Hardcastle.  He  spoke  to  me  as  if  he  knew  me  all  his 
life  before,  asked  twenty  questions,  and  never  waited 
for  an  answer,  interrupted  my  best  remarks  with  some 
silly  pun,  and  when  I  was  in  my  best  story  of  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  he  asked  if 
I  had  not  a  good  hand  at  making  punch.  Yes,  Kate, 
he  asked  your  father  if  he  was  a  maker  of  punch. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  One  of  us  must  certainly  be  mis- 
taken. 

Hardcastle.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shown  himself, 
I'm  determined  he  shall  never  have  my  consent. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing  I 
take  him,  he  shall  never  have  mine. 

Hardcastle.  In  one  thing,  then,  we  are  agreed — to 
reject  him. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes — but  upon  conditions.  For 
if  you  should  find  him  less  impudent,  and  1  more 
presuming;  if  you  find  him  more  respectful,  and  I 
more  importunate — I  do  n't  know — the  fellow  is  well 
enough  for  a  man — certainly  we  don't  meet  many 
such  at  a  horse-race  in  the  country. 

Hardcastle.  Ii  we.  should  find  him  so But  that's 


316  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

impossible.  The  first  appearance  has  done  my  bus) 
ness.  I'm  seldom  deceived  in  that. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  yet  there  may  be  many  good 
qualities  under  that  first  appearance. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow's  outside 
to  her  taste,  she  then  sets  about  guessing  the  rest  of 
his  furniture.  With  her  a  smooth  face  stands  for  good 
sense,  and  a  genteel  figure  for  every  virtue. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  a  conversation  begun 
with  a  compliment  to  my  good  sense,  won't  end  with  a 
sneer  at  my  understanding ! 

Hardcastle.  Pardon  me,  Kate.  But  if  young  Mr. 
Brazen  can  find  the  art  of  reconciling  contradictions, 
he  may  please  us  both,  perhaps. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be  mis- 
taken, what  if  we  go  to  make  farther  discoveries  ? 

Hardcastle.  Agreed.  But  depend  on't,  I'm  in  the 
right. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And,  depend  on't,  I'm  not  much 
in  the  wrong.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Tony,  running  in  with  a  casket. 

Tony.  Ecod!  I  have  got  them.  Here  they  are. 
My  cousin  Con's  necklaces,  bobs  and  all.  My  mother 
shan't  cheat  the  poor  souls  out  of  their  fortin  neither. 
0  my  genus,  is  that  you  ? 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you  managed 
with  your  mother  ?  I  hope  you  have  amused  her  with 
pretending  love  for  your  cousin,  and  that  you  are  will- 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  317 

ing  to  be  reconciled  at  last  ?  Our  horses  will  be  re- 
freshed ia  a  short  time,  and  we  shall  soon  be  ready  to 
set  off. 

Tony.  And  here's  something  to  bear  your  charges 
by  the  way — (giving  the  casket) — your  sweetheart's 
jewels.  Keep  them  ;  and  hang  those,  I  say,  that  would 
rob  you  of  one  of  them. 

Hastings.  But  how  have  you  procured  them  from 
your  mother  ? 

Tony.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no 
fibs.  I  procured  them  by  the  rule  of  thumb.  If  I  had 
not  a  key  to  every  draw  in  my  mother's  bureau,  how 
could  I  go  to  the  alehouse  so  often  as  I  do  ?  An  hon- 
est man  may  rob  himself  of  his  own  at  any  time. 

Hastings.  Thousands  do  it  every  day.  But,  to  be 
plain  with  you,  Miss  Neville  is  endeavoring  to  procure 
them  from  her  aunt  this  very  instant.  If  she  succeeds, 
it  will  be  the  most  delicate  way,  at  least,  of  obtaining 
them. 

Tony.  Well,  keep  them,  until  you  know  how  it  will 
be.  But  I  know  how  it  will  be  well  enough, — she'd 
as  soon  part  with  the  only  sound  tooth  in  her  head. 

Hastings.  But  I  drea'd  the  effects  of  her  resentment 
when-  she  finds  she  has  lost  them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment ;  leave  me 
to  managfi  that.  I  don't  value  her  resentment  the 
bounce  of  a  cracker,,  Zounds  !  here  they  are.  Mor- 
rice !  Prance !  [Exit  Hastings. 

Tony,  Mrs.  Hardcastle,  and  Miss  Neville. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze  me. 
Such  a  girl  MS  you  want  jewels  !  It  will  be  time  enough 

27* 


318  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

for  jewels,  my  dear,  twenty  years  hence,  when  your 
beauty  begins  to  want  repairs. 

Miss  Neville.  But  what  will  repair  beauty  at  forty, 
will  certainly  improve  it  at  twenty,  madam. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of  none. 
That  natural  blush  is  beyond  a  thousand  ornaments. 
Besides,  child,  jewels  are  quite  out  at  present.  Don't 
you  see  half  the  ladies  of  our  acquaintance,  my  Lady 
Killdaylight,  and  Mrs.  Crump,  and  the  rest  of  them, 
carry  their  jewels  to  town,  and  bring  nothing  but  paste 
and  marcasites  back  ? 

Miss  Neville.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but  some- 
body that  shall  be  nameless  would  like  me  best  with 
all  my  little  finery  about  me  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear,  and 
then  see  if,  with  such  a  pair  of  eyes,  you  want  any 
better  sparklers.  What  do  you  think,  Tony,  my  dear  ? 
Does  your  cousin  Con  want  any  jewels  in  your  eyes 
to  set  off  her  beauty  ? 

Tony.     That's  as  hereafter  may  be. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew  how  it 
would  oblige  me. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  parcel  of  old-fashioned  rose  and 
table-cut  things.  They  would  make  you  look  like  the 
court  of  King  Solomon  at  a  puppet-show.  Besides,  I 
believe  I  can't  readily  come  at  them.  They  may  be 
missing  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary. 

Tony.  (Apart  to  Mrs.  Hardcastle.)  Then  why  don't 
you  tell  her  so  at  once,  as  she's  so  longing  for  them  ? 
Tell  her  they're  lost.  It's  the  only  way  to  quiet  her. 
Say  they're  lost,  and  call  me  to  bear  witness. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  319 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Apart  to  Tony.)  You  know,  my 
dear,  I'm  only  keeping  them  for  you.  So  if  I  say  they 
are  gone,  you'll  bear  me  witness,  will  you  ?  He  ! 
he!  he! 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Ecod  !  I'll  say  I  saw  them 
taken  out  with  my  own  eyes. 

Miss  Neville.  I  desire  them  but  for  a  day,  madam 
— just  to  be  permitted  to  show  them  as  relics,  and  then 
they  may  be  locked  up  again. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  dear 
Constance,  if  I  could  find  them  you  should  have  them. 
They  are  missing,  I  assure  you.  Lost,  for  aught  I 
know ;  but  we  must  have  patience,  wherever  they  are. 

Miss  Neville.  I'll  not  believe  it ;  this  is  but  a  shallow 
pretence  to  deny  me.  I  know  they  are  too  valuable  to  be 
so  slightly  kept,  and  as  you  are  to  answer  for  the  loss — 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Do  n't  be  alarmed,  Constance.  If 
they  be  lost,  I  must  restore  an  equivalent.  But  my 
son  knows  they  are  missing,  and  not  to  be  found. 

Tony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.  They  are  miss- 
ing, and  not  to  be  found ;  I'll  take  my  oath  on't. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  must  learn  resignation,  my 
dear ;  for  though  we  lose  our  fortune,  yet  we  should 
not  lose  our  patience.  See  me,  how  calm  I  am. 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  people  are  generally  calm  at  the 
misfortunes  of  others. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Now,  I  wonder  a  girl  of  your  good 
sense  should  waste  a  thought  upon  such  trumpery.  We 
shall  soon  find  them  ;  and  in  the  mean  time  you  shall 
make  use  of  my  garnets  till  your  jewels  be  found. 

Miss  Neville.     I  detest  garnets. 


320  SH7i    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  The  most  becoming  things  in  the 
world  to  set  off  a  clear  complexion.  You  have  often 
seen  how  well  they  look  upon  me.  You  shall  have 
them.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  I  dislike  them  of  all  things.  You 
shan't  stir.  Was  ever  any  thing  so  provoking,  to  mis- 
lay my  own  jewels  and  force  me  to  wear  her  trumpery  ? 

Tony.  Do  n't  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you  the  gar- 
nets take  what  you  can  get.  The  jewels  are  your  own 
already.  I  have  stolen  them  out  of  her  bureau,  and 
she  does  not  know  it.  Fly  to  your  spark ;  he  '11  tell 
you  more  of  the  matter.  Leave  mo  to  manage  her. 

Miss  Neville.     My  dear  cousin  ? 

Tony.  Vanish.  She  's  here,  and  has  missed  them 
already.  [Exit  Miss  Neville.~\  Zounds !  how  she 
fidgets  and  spits  about  like  a  Catharine  wheel. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Confusion  !  thieves !  robbers !  we 
are  cheated,  plundered,  broke  open,  undone. 

Tony.  What 's  the  matter,  what 's  the  matter,  mam- 
ma ?  I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  any  of  the  good 
family  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  We  are  robbed.  My  bureau  has 
been  broken  open,  the  jewels  taken  out,  and  I  'm  un- 
done. 

Tony.  Oh!  is  that  all?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  By  the 
"aws  I  never  saw  it  better  acted  in  my  life.  Ecod,  I 
thought  you  was  ruined  in  earnest,  ha !  ha !  ha  ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Why,  boy,  I  am  ruined  in  earnest. 
My  bureau  has  been  broken  open,  and  all  taken  away. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    COXQ  i:KU.  321 

Tony.  Stick  to  that,  ha !  ha !  ha !  stick  to  that. 
I  '11  bear  witness,  you  know !  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that 's  pre- 
cious, the  jewels  are  gone,  and  I  shall  be  ruined  forever. 

Tony.   Sure  I  know  they  are  gone,  and  I  am  to  say  so. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  dearest  Tony,  but  hear  me. 
They  're  gone,  I  say. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make  me  for  to 
iaugh,  ha !  ha !  I  know  who  took  them  well  enough, 
ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  blockhead, 
that  can  't  tell  the  difference  between  jest  and  earnest ! 
I  can  tell  you  I  'm  not  in  jest,  booby. 

Tony.  That 's  right,  that 's  right ;  you  must  be  in  a 
bitter  passion,  and  then  nobody  will  suspect  either  of 
us.  I  '11  bear  witness  that  they  are  gone. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  cross-grain- 
ed brute,  that  won't  hear  me !  Can  you  bear  witness 
that  you  're  no  better  than  a  fool  ?  Was  ever  poor  woman 
so  beset  with  fools  on  one  hand,  and  thieves  on  the 
other ! 

Tony.     I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Bear  witness  again,  you  block- 
head, you,  and  I  '11  turn  you  out  of  the  room  directly. 
My  poor  niece,  what  will  become  of  her  ?  Do  you  laugh, 
you  unfeeling  brute,  as  if  you  enjoyed  my  distress  ? 

Tony.     I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Do  you  insult  me,  monster.  I  '11 
teach  you  to  vex  your  mother,  I  will. 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that.  (He  runs  off,  ike 
follows  him.) 


322  SHE    STOOPS 


Enter  Miss  Hardcastle  and  Maid. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  What  an  unaccountable  creature 
is  that  brother  of  mine,  to  send  them  to  the  house  as 
an  inn  ;  ha  !  ha  !  I  do  n't  wonder  at  his  impudence. 

Maid.  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the  young  gentle- 
man, as  you  passed  by  in  your  present  dress,  asked  me 
if  you  were  the  bar-maid.  He  mistook  you  for  the 
bar-maid,  madam  ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  he  ?  Then,  as  I  live,  I  'm 
resolved  to  keep  up  the  delusion.  Tell  me,  Pimple, 
how  do  you  like  my  present  dress  ?  Do  n't  you  think 
I  look  something  like  Cherry  in  the  Beaux'  Stratagem. 

Maid.  It  's  the  dre  ss,madam,  that  every  lady  wears 
in  the  country,  but  when  she  visits  or  receives  com- 
pany. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  are  you  sure  he  does  rot  re- 
member my  face  or  person  ? 

Maid.     Certain  of  it. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  vow  T  thought  so  ;  for  though 
we  spoke  for  some  time  together,  yet  his  fears  were 
such  that  he  never  once  looked  up  during  the  interview. 
Indeed,  if  he  had,  my  bonnet  would  have  kept  him  from 
seeing  me. 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keeping  him  in 
his  mistake  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  be  seen, 
and  that  is  no  small  advantage  to  a  girl  who  brings  her 
face  to  market.  Then  I  shall  perhaps  make  an  acquaint- 
ance, and  that  's  no  small  victory  gained  over  one  who 
never  addresses  any  but  the  wildest  of  her  sex.  But 
my  chief  aim  is  to  take  my  gentleman  off  his  guard, 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  323 

and  like  an  invisible  champion  of  romance,  examine 
the  giant's  force  before  I  offer  to  combat. 

Maid.  But  are  you  sure  you  can  act  your  part,  and 
disguise  your  voice  so  that  he  may  mistake  that,  as  he 
has  already  mistaken  your  person  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never  fear  me.  I  think  I  have 
got  the  true  bar  cant  —  Did  your  honor  call  ?  —  Attend 
the  Lion  there. —  Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Angel. — 
The  Lamb  has  been  outrageous  this  half  hour. 

Maid.     It  will  do,  madam.     But  he's  here. 

{Exit  Maid. 
*  Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  What  a  bawling  in  every  part  of  the  house. 
I  have  scarce  a  moment's  repose.  If  I  go  to  the  best 
room,  there  I  find  my  host  and  his  story  ;  if  I  fly  to  the 
gallery,  there  we  have  my  hostess  with  her  courtesy 
down  to  the  ground.  I  have  at  last  a  moment  to  my- 
self, and  now  for  recollection.  [  Walks  and  muses. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  you  call,  sir?  Did  your 
honor  call  ? 

Marlow.  (Musing.)  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle,  she's 
too  grave  and  sentimental  for  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.     Did  your  honor  call  ? 

{She  still  places  herself  before  him 
he  turning  away. 

Marlow.  No,  child.  (Musing.)  Besides,  from  the 
glimpse  I  had  of  her,  I  think  she  squints. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  'm  sure,  sir,  I  heard  the  bell 
ring. 

Marlow.  No,  No.  (Musing.)  I  have  pleased  my 
father,  however,  by  coming  down,  and  I'll  to-morrow 


324  SHE    STOOl'S    TO    CONQVKK. 

please  myself  by  returning.  (  Taking  out  his  tablet*  and 
perusing.) 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Perhaps  the  other  gentleman 
called,  sir. 

Marlow.     I  tell  you  no. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  sir ;  we 
have  such  a  parcel  of  servants. 

Marlow.  No,  no,  I  tell  you.  (Looks  full  in  her  face.) 
Yes,  child,  I  think  I  did  call.  I  wanted  —  I  wanted  — 
I  vow,  child,  you  are  vastly  handsome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.    O  la,  sir,  you'll  make  one  ashamed. 

Marlow.  Never  saw  a  more  sprightly,  malicious 
eye.  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  did  call.  Have  you  got  any 
of  your — a  —  what  d'ye  call  it,  in  the  house? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  we  have  been  out  of  that 
these  ten  days. 

Marlow.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  I  find,  to  very 
little  purpose.  Suppose  I  should  call  for  a  taste,  just 
by  way  of  trial,  of  the  nectar  of  your  lips,  perhaps  I 
might  be  disappointed  in  that  too. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Nectar !  nectar !  That's  a  liquor 
there's  no  call  for  in  these  parts.  French,  I  suppose. 
We  keep  no  French  wines  here,  sir. 

Marlow.     Of  true  English  growth,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  it's  odd  I  should  not  know 
it.  We  brew  all  sorts  of  wines  in  this  house,  and  I 
have  lived  here  these  eighteen  years. 

Marlow.  Eighteen  years !  Why,one  would  think,child, 
you  kept  the  bar  before  you  were  born.  How  old  are  you? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Oh,  sir,  I  must  not  tell  my  age. 
They  say  women  and  music  should  never  be  dated. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  325 

Marlow.  To  guess  at  this  distance,  you  can't  be 
touch  above  forty.  (Approaching).  Yet  nearer,  I  do  n't 
think  so  much.  (Approaching.)  By  coming  close  to 
some  women,  they  look  younger  still ;  but  when  we 
come  very  close  indeed  —  (Attempting  to  kiss  her.) 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Pray,  sir,  keep  your  distance. 
One  would  think  you  wanted  to  know  one's  age  as  they 
do  horses,  by  mark  of  mouth. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  extremely  ill. 
If  you  keep  me  at  this  distance,  how  is  it  possible  you 
and  I  can  ever  be  acquainted  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  who  wants  to  be  acquainted 
with  you  ?  I  want  no  such  acquaintance,  not  I.  I'm 
sure  you  did  not  treat  Miss  Hardcastle,  that  was  here 
a  while  ago,  in  this  obstopalous  manner.  I'll  warrant 
me,  before  her  you  looked  dashed,  and  kept  bowing  to 
the  ground,  and  talked,  for  all  the  world,  as  if  you  were 
before  a  justice  of  the  peace. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  Egad,  she  has  hit  it,  sure  enough ! 
(To  her.)  In  awe  of  her,  child?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  A 
mere  awkward,  squinting  thing !  No,  no.  I  find  you 
do  n't  know  me.  I  laughed  and  rallied  her  a  little  ,• 
but  I  was  unwilling  to  be  too  severe.  No,  I  could  not 
be  too  severe,  curse  me ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Oh,  then,  sir,  you  are  a  favorite, 
I  find,  among  the  ladies? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favorite.  And  yet, 
hang  me,  I  do  n't  see  what  they  find  in  me  to  follow. 
At  the  ladies'  club  in  town  I'm  called  their  agreeab'a 
Rattle.  Rattle,  child,  is  not  my  real  name,  but  one 
I'm  known  by.  My  name  is  Solomons  ;  Mr.  Solomons, 
my  dear,  at  your  service.  (  Offering  to  salute  her.) 
28 


326  SHE    STOOPS    70    CONQUER. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Hold,  sir,  you  are  introducing  me 
to  your  club,  not  to  yourself.  And  you  're  so  great  a 
favorite  there,  you  say  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear.  There  's  Mrs.  Mantrap, 
Lady  Betty  Blackleg,  the  Countess  of  Sligo,  Mrs. 
Langhorns,  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  and  your  humble 
servant,  keep  up  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  it 's  a  very  merry  place,  I 
suppose  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  suppers,  wine,  and 
old  women  can  make  us. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle,  ha! 
ha!  ha! 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  Egad !  I  don't  quite  like  this 
chit.  She  looks  knowing,  methinks.  You  laugh,  child  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  what 
time  they  all  have  for  minding  their  work,  or  their 
family. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  All 's  well ;  she  don't  laugh  at 
me.  (To  her.)  Do  you  ever  work,  child? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Aye,  sure.  There  's  not  a  screen 
or  a  quilt  in  the  whole  house  but  what  can  bear  witness 
to  that. 

Marlow.  Odso !  then  you  must  show  me  your  em- 
broidery. I  embroider  and  draw  patterns  myself  a 
little.  If  you  want  a  judge  of  your  work,  you  must 
apply  to  me.  (Seizing  her  hand.) 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Ay,  but  the  colors  do  n't  look 
well  by  candle-light.  You  shall  see  all  in  the  morn- 
ing. (Struggling.) 

Marlow.  And  why  not  now,  my  angel  F  Such  beauty 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  327 

fires  beyond  the  power  of  resistance.  Fehaw!  the 
father  here  !  My  old  luck  ;  I  never  nicked  seven  that 
I  did  not  throw  ames  ace  three  times  following.* 

[Exit  Marlow. 

Enter  Hardcastle^  who  stands  in  surprise. 

Hardcastle.  So,  madam.  So  I  find  this  is  your 
modest  lover.  This  is  your  humble  admirer,  that  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  grpund,  and  only  adored  at  hum- 
ble distance.  Kate,  Kate,  art  thou  not  ashamed  to 
deceive  your  father  so  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa,  but 
he  's  still  the  modest  man  I  first  took  him  for ;  you  '11 
be  convinced  of  it  as  well  as  I. 

Hardcastle.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  I  believe  his 
impudence  is  infectious  !  Did  n't  I  see  him  seize  your 
hand  ?  Did  n't  I  see  him  hawl  you  about  like  a  milk- 
maid? And  now  you  talk  of  his  respect  and  his 
modesty,  forsooth ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you  of 
his  modesty,  that  he  has  only  the  faults  that  will  pass 
off  with  time,  and  the  virtues  that  will  improve  with 
age,  I  hope  you'll  forgive  him. 

Hardcastle.  The  girl  would  actually  make  one  run 
mad !  I  tell  you  I'll  not  be  convinced.  I  am  convinced. 
He  has  scarcely  been  three  hours  in  the  house,  and  he 
has  already  encroached  on  all  my  prerogatives.  You 

*  Ames  ace,  or  ambs  ace,  is  two  aces  thrown  at  the  same  time  on 
two  dice.  As  seven  is  the  main,  to  throw  ames  ace  thrice  running, 
when  the  player  nicks,  that  is,  hazards  his  money  on  seven,  is  singu- 
larly bad  luck. 


828  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

may  like  his  impudence,  and  call  it  modesty  ;  but  my  son- 
in-law,  madam,  must  have  very  different  qualifications. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to  con- 
vince  you. 

Hardcastle.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time,  for  T 
have  thoughts  of  turning  him  out  this  very  hour. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Give  me  that  hour,  then,  and  I 
hope  to  satisfy  you. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be  then.  But  I'll 
have  no  trifling  with  your  father.  All  fair  and  open ; 
do  you  mind  me  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  ever  found 
that  I  considered  your  commands  as  my  pride  ;  for  your 
kindness  is  such,  that  my  duty  as  yet  has  been  inclina- 
tion. [Exeunt. 


ACT   FOURTH. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  You  surprise  me;  Sir  Charles  Marlow 
expected  here  this  night !  Where  have  you  had  your 
information  ? 

Miss  Neville.  You  may  depend  upon  it.  I  just  saw 
his  letter  to  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  which  he  tells  him  he 
intends  setting  out  in  a  few  hours  after  his  son. 

Hastings.  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must  be  com- 
pleted before  he  arrives.  He  knows  me  ;  and  should 
he  find  me  here,  would  discover  my  name,  and,  per- 
haps, my  designs,  to  the  rest  of  the  family. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  329 

Miss  Neville.     The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe  ? 

Hastings.  Yes,  yes.  I  have  sent  them  to  Marlow, 
who  keeps  the  keys  of  our  baggage.  In  the  mean  time, 
I'll  go  to  prepare  matters  for  our  elopement.  I  have 
had  the  Squire's  promise  of  a  fresh  pair  of  horses ;  and 
if  I  should  not  see  him  again,  will  write  him  further 
directions.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  success  attend  you !  In  the 
mean  time,  I'll  go  amuse  my  aunt  with  the  old  pre- 
tence of  a  violent  passion  for  my  cousin.  [Exit. 

Enter  Marlow,  followed  by  a  Servant. 

Marlow.  I  wonder  what  Hastings  could  mean  by 
sending  me  so  valuable  a  thing  as  a  casket  to  keep  for 
him,  when  he  knows  the  only  place  I  have  is  the  seat 
of  a  post-coach  at  an  inn-door.  Have  you  deposited 
the  casket  with  the  landlady,  as  I  ordered  you  ?  Have 
you  put  it  into  her  own  hands  ? 

Servant.     Yes,  your  honor. 

Marlow.     She  said  she'd  keep  it  safe,  did  she  ? 

Servant.  Yes ;  she  said  she'd  keep  it  safe  enough. 
She  asked  me  how  I  came  by  it ;  and  she  said  she  had 
a  great  mind  to  make  me  give  an  account  of  myself. 

[Exit  Servant, 

Marlow.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  They're  safe,  however. 
What  an  unaccountable  set  of  beings  have  we  got 
amongst!  This  little  bar-maid,  though,  runs  in  my 
mind  most  strangely,  and  drives  out  the  absurdities  of 
all  the  rest  of  the  family.  She's  mine,  she  must  be 
mine,  or  I'm  greatly  mistaken. 
28* 


330  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  Bless  me  !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  her  that 
I  intended  to  prepare  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
Marlow  here,  and  in  spirits  too ! 

Marlow.  Give  me  joy,  George !  Crown  me,  shadow 
me  with  laurels :  Well,  George,  after  all,  we  modest 
fellows  don't  want  for  success  among  the  women. 

Hastings.  §ome  women,  you  mean.  But  what  suc- 
cess has  your  honor's  modesty  been  crowned  with  now, 
that  it  grews  so  insolent  upon  us  ? 

Marlow.  Did  n't  you  see  the  tempting,  brisk,  love- 
ly, little  thing,  that  runs  about  the  house  with  a  bunch 
of  keys  to  its  girdle  ? 

Hastings.     Well,  and  what  then  ? 

Marlow.  She's  mine,  you  rogue,  you.  Such  fire, 
such  motion,  such  eyes,  such  lips  —  but,  egad!  she 
would  not  let  me  kiss  them  though. 

Hastings.  But  are  you  so  sure,  so  very  sure  of 
her? 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  she  talked  of  showing  me  her 
work  above  stairs,  and  I  am  to  approve  the  pattern. 

Hastings.  But  how  can  you,  Charles,  go  about  to 
rob  a  woman  of  her  honor? 

Marlow.  Pshaw  !  pshaw  !  We  all  know  the  honor 
of  the  bar-maid  of  an  inn.  I  do  n't  intend  to  rob  her, 
take  my  word  for  it ;  there's  nothing  in  this  house  I 
shan't  honestly  pay  for. 

Hastings.     I  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 

Marlow.  And  if  she  has,  I  should  be  the  last  man 
m  the  world  that  would  attempt  to  corrupt  it. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  331 

Hastings.  You  have  taken  care,  I  hope,  of  the 
casket  I  sent  you  to  lock  up  ?  It's  in  safety  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  yes ;  it's  safe  enough.  I  have  taken 
care  of  it.  But  how  could  you  think  the  seat  of  a 
posl>coach  at  an  inn-door  a  place  of  safety?  Ah! 
numscull !  I  have  taken  better  precautions  for  you 
than  you  did  for  yourself  —  I  have  — 

Hastings.     What  ? 

Marlow.  I  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to  keep  for 
you. 

Hastings.     To  the  landlady ! 

Marlow.     The  landlady. 

Marlow.     You  did  ? 

Marlow.  I  did.  She's  to  be  answerable  for  its  forth- 
coming, you  know. 

Hastings.     Yes,  she'll  bring  it  forth  with  a  witness. 

Marlow.  Was  n't  I  right  ?  I  believe  you'll  allow 
that  I  acted  prudently  upon  this  occasion. 

Hastings.  (Aside.}  He  must  not  see  my  uneasiness. 

Marlow.  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted  though, 
methinks.  Sure  nothing  has  happened  ? 

Hastings.  No,  nothing.  Never  was  in  better  spirits 
in  all  my  life.  And  so  you  left  it  with  the  landlady, 
who,  no  doubt,  very  readily  undertook  the  charge. 

Marlow.  Rather  too  readily ;  for  she  not  only  kept 
the  casket,  but,  through  her  great  precaution,  was  going 
to  keep  the  messenger  too.  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Hastings.     He  !  he !  he !     They're  safe,  however. 

Marlow.     As  a  guinea  in  a  miser's  purse. 

Hastings.  (Aside.}  So  now  all  hopes  of  fortune  are 
at  an  end,  and  we  must  set  off  without  it.  ( To  him.) 


332  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Well,  Charles,  I'll  leave  you  to  your  meditatona  ^n 
the  pretty  bar-maid,  and,  he !  he !  he  !  may  you  htT  as 
successful  for  yourself  as  you  have  been  for  me ! 

[Exit 
Marlow.    Thank  ye,  George ;  I  ask  no  more. —  Ha  I 

ha!  ha5 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  I  no  longer  know  my  own  house.  It'i 
turned  all  topsy-turvy.  His  servants  have  got  drunk 
already.  I'll  bear  it  no  longer;  and  yet,  from  mj 
respect  for  his  father,  I'll  be  calm.  (To  him.)  Mr. 
Marlow,  your  servant.  I'm  your  very  humble  servant. 
(Bowing  low.) 

Marlow.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.  (Aside.) 
What  is  to  be  the  wonder  now  ? 

Hardcastle.  I  believe,  sir,  you  must  be  sensible,  sir, 
that  no  man  alive  ought  to  be  more  welcome  than  your 
father's  son,  sir.  I  hope  you  think  so? 

Marlow.  I  do  from  my  soul,  sir.  I  don't  want  much 
entreaty.  I  generally  make  my  father's  son  welcome 
wherever  he  goes. 

Hardcastle.  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  sir. 
But  though  I  say  nothing  to  your  own  conduct,  that  of 
your  servants  is  insufferable.  Their  manner  of  drink- 
ing is  setting  a  very  bad  example  in  this  house,  I  assure 
you. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  my  very  good  sir,  that  is  no 
fault  of  mine.  If  they  do  n't  drink  as  they  ought,  they 
are  to  blame.  I  ordered  them  not  to  spare  the  cellar. 
I  did,  I  assure  you.  (To  the  side-scene.)  Here,  let  one 
of  my  servants  come  up.  (To  him.)  My  positive 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  333 

directions  were,  that  as  I  did  not  drink  myself,  they 
should  make  up  for  my  deficiencies  below. 

Hardcastle.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for  what 
they  do  ?  I'm  satisfied  ! 

Marlow.  They  had,  I  assure  you.  You  shall  hew 
it  from  one  of  themselves. 

Enter  Servant,  drunk. 

Marlow.  You,  Jeremy !  Come  forward,  sirrah ! 
What  were  my  orders  ?  Were  you  not  told  to  drink 
freely,  and  call  for  what  you  thought  fit,  for  the  good 
of  the  house  ? 

Hardcastle.     (Aside.)     I  begin  to  lose  my  patience. 

Jeremy.  Please  your  honor,  liberty  and  Fleet-street 
forever !  Though  I'm  but  a  servant,  I'm  as  good  as 
another  man.  I'll  drink  for  no  man  before  supper, 
sir,  damme !  Good  liquor  will  sit  upon  a  good  supper, 

but  a  good  supper  will  not  sit  upon hiccup • 

my  conscience,  sir.  \_Exit. 

Marlow.  You  see  my  old  friend,  the  fellow  is  as 
drunk  as  he  can  possibly  be.  I  do  n't  know  what  you'd 
have  more,  unless  you'd  have  the  poor  devil  soused  in 
a  beer  barrel. 

Hardcastle.  Zounds,  he'll  drive  me  distracted,  if  I 
contain  myself  any  longer !  Mr.  Marlow ;  sir,  I  have 
submitted  to  your  insolence  for  more  than  four  hours, 
and  I  see  no  likelihood  of  its  coming  to  an  end.  I'm 
now  resolved  to  be  master  here,  sir,  and  I  desire  that 
you  and  your  drunken  pack  may  leave  my  house  directly. 

Marlow.  Leave  your  house !  —  Sure,  you  jest,  my 
good  friend  ?  What !  when  I  am  doing  what  I  can  to 
please  you. 


334  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  do  n't  please ;  so  J 
desire  you  will  leave  my  house. 

Marlow.  Sure  you  cannot  be  serious  ?  at  this  time 
of  night,  and  such  a  night  ?  You  only  mean  to  banter 
me. 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I'm  serious !  and  now 
that  my  passions  are  roused,  I  say  this  house  is  mine, 
and  I  command  you  to  leave  it  directly. 

Marlow.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  A  puddle  in  a  storm.  I 
shan't  stir  a  step,  I  assure  you.  (In  a  serious  tone.)  This 
your  house,  fellow !  It's  my  house.  This  is  my  house. 
Mine  while  I  choose  to  stay.  What  right  have  you  to 
bid  me  leave  this  house,  sir  ?  I  never  met  with  such 
impudence,  curse  me ;  never  in  my  whole  life  before. 

Hardcastle.  Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did !  To 
come  to  my  house,  to  call  for  what  he  likes,  to  turn  me 
out  of  my  own  chair,  to  insult  the  family,  to  order  his 
servants  to  get  drunk,  and  then  to  tell  me,  "  This  house 
is  mine,  sir !  "  By  all  that's  impudent,  it  makes  me 
laugh.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Pray,  sir,  (bantering)  as  you 
take  the  house,  what  think  you  of  taking  the  rest  of  the 
furniture  ?  There's  a  pair  of  silver  candle-sticks,  and 
there's  a  fire-screen,  and  here's  a  pair  of  brazen-nosed 
bellows ;  perhaps  you  may  take  a  fancy  to  them  ? 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  sir  ;  bring  me  your  bill, 
and  let's  make  no  more  words  about  it. 

Hardcastle.  There  are  a  set  of  prints,  too.  What 
think  you  of  the  Rake's  Progress  for  your  own  apart* 
ment? 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say,  and  I'll  leave 
you  and  your  infernal  house  directly. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  335 

Hardcastle.  Then  there's  a  mahogany  table  that 
you  may  see  your  face  in. 

Marlow.     My  bill,  I  say. 

Hardcastle.  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair  for  your 
own  particular  slumbers,  after  a  hearty  meal. 

Marlow.  Zounds  !  bring  me  my  bill,  I  say,  and  let's 
hear  no  more  on't. 

Hardcastle.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your 
father's  letter  to  me,  I  was  taught  to  expect  a  well- 
bred,  modest  man  as  a  visitor  here,  but  now  I  find  him 
no  better  than  a  coxcomb  and  a  bully !  but  he  will  be 
down  here  presently,  and  shall  hear  more  of  it.  \_Exit. 

Marlow.  How's  this !  Sure  I  have  not  mistaken 
the  house.  Everything  looks  like  an  inn  ;  the  servants 
cry  coming ;  the  attendance  is  awkward  ;  the  bar-maid, 
too,  to  attend  us.  But  she's  here,  and  will  further  in- 
form me.  Whither  so  fast,  child  ?  A  word  with  you. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Let  it  be  short,  then.  I'm  in  a 
hurry.  (Aside.)  I  believe  he  begins  to  find  out  his 
mistake.  But  it's  too  soon  quite  to  undeceive  him. 

Marlow.  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  question. 
What  are  you,  and  what  may  your  business  in  this 
house  be  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.     A  relation  of  the  family,  sir. 

Marlow.     What,  a  poor  relation  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  a  poor  relation,  appointed 
to  keep  the  keys,  and  to  see  that  the  guests  want  nothing 
in  my  power  to  give  them. 

Marlow.    That  is,  you  act  as  the  bar-maid  of  this  inn. 


336  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Inn  !  O  la what  brought  that 

into  your  head  ?  One  of  the  best  families  in  the  county 
keep  an  inn !  —  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  old  Mr.  Hardcastle's 
house  an  inn ! 

Marlow.  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house !  Is  this  Mr.  Hard- 
castle's  house,  child ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Ay,  sure.  Whose  else  should  it  be  ? 

Marlow.  So,  then,  all's  out,  and  I  have  been  dam- 
nably imposed  upon.  Oh,  confound  my  stupid  head,  I 
shall  be  laughed  at  over  the  whole  town !  I  shall  be 
stuck  up  in  caricature  in  all  the  print-shops.  The 
Dullissimo-Maccaroni.  To  mistake  this  house  of  all 
others  for  an  inn,  mid  my  father's  old  friend  for  an  inn- 
keeper !  What  a  swaggering  puppy  must  he  take  me 
for !  What  a  silly  puppy  do  I  find  myself !  There, 
again,  may  I  be  hanged,  my  dear,  but  I  mistook  you 
for  the  bar-maid. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Dear  me !  dear  me !  I'm  sure 
there's  nothing  in  my  behavior  to  put  me  upon  a  level 
with  one  of  that  stamp. 

Marlow.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But  I  was  in 
for  a  list  of  blunders,  and  could  not  help  making  you  a 
subscriber.  My  stupidity  saw  everything  the  wrong 
way.  I  mistook  your  assiduity  for  assurance,  and  your 
simplicity  for  allurement.  But  it's  over  —  this  house 
I  no  more  show  my  face  in. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  done  nothing 
to  disoblige  you.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  to  affront 
any  gentleman  who  has  been  so  polite,  and  said  so  many 
civil  things  to  me.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  {pre- 
tending to  cry)  if  he  left  the  family  on  my  account. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  337 

I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  people  said  anything  amiss, 
since  I  have  no  fortune  but  my  character. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  By  Heaven !  she  weeps.  This 
is  the  first  mark  of  tenderness  I  ever  had  from  a  modest 
woman,  and  it  touches  me.  (To  her.)  Excuse  me, 
my  lovely  girl ;  you  are  the  only  part  of  the  family  I 
leave  with  reluctance.  But,  to  be  plain  with  you,  the* 
difference  of  our  birth,  fortune,  and  education,  make  an 
honorable  connection  impossible ;  amf  I  can  never 
harbor  a  thought  of  seducing  simplicity  that  trusted  in 
my  honor,  of  bringing  ruin  upon  one  whose  only  fault 
was  being  too  lovely. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  Generous  man !  I  now 
begin  to  admire  him.  (  To  him.)  But  I  am  sure  my 
family  is  as  good  as  Miss  Hardcastle's  ;  and  though  I'm 
poor,  that's  no  great  misfortune  to  a  contented  mind; 
and  until  this  moment,  I  never  thought  that  it  was  bad 
to  want  fortune. 

Marlow.     And  why  now,  my  pretty  simplicity  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  distance 
from  one,  that  if  I  had  a  thousand  pounds,  I  would  give 
it  all  to. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  This  simplicity  bewitches  me  so, 
that  if  I  stay,  I'm  undone.  I  must  make  one  bold 
effort  and  leave  her.  (  To  her.)  Your  partiality  in  my 
favor,  my  dear,  touches  me  most  sensibly ;  and  were  I 
to  live  for  myself  alone,  I  could  easily  fix  my  choice. 
But  I  owe  too  much  to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  too 
much  to  the  authority  of  a  father ;  so  that  —  I  can 
speak  it  —  it  affects  me.  —  Farewell.  \_Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  knew  half  his  merit  till 
29 


338  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

now.  He  shall  not  go  if  I  have  power  or  art  to  detain 
him.  I'll  still  preserve  the  character  in  which  I  stooped 
to  conquer,  but  will  undeceive  my  papa,  who,  perhaps, 
may  laugh  him  out  of  his  resolution.  [Exit. 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville. 

Tony.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves  the  next, 
time.  I  have  done  my  duty.  She  has  got  the  jewels 
again,  that's  a  $ure  thing ;  but  she  believes  it  was  all  a 
mistake  of  the  servants. 

Miss  Neville.  But,  my  dear  cousin,  sure  you  won't 
forsake  us  in  this  distress  ?  If  she  in  the  least  suspects 
that  I  am  going  off,  I  shall  certainly  be  locked  up,  or 
sent  to  my  aunt  Pedigree's,  which  is  ten  times  worse. 

Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are  damned 
bad  things.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  got  you  a 
pair  of  horses  that  will  fly  like  Whistle  Jacket;  and 
I'm  sure  you  can't  say  but  I  have  courted  you  nicely 
before  her  face.  Here  she  comes  ;  we  must  court  a  bit 
or  two  more,  for  fear  she  should  suspect  us. 

[They  retire  and  seem  to  fondle 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  I  was  greatly  fluttered,  to 
be  sure,  but  my  son  tells  me  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  th«* 
servants.  I  shan't  be  easy,  however,  till  they  are 
fairly  married,  and  then  let  her  keep  her  own  fortune. 
But  what  do  I  see  ?  fondling  together,  as  I'm  alive.  I 
never  saw  Tony  so  sprightly  before.  Ah!  have  I 
caught  you,  my  pretty  doves  ?  What,  billing,  exchang- 
ing glances,  and  broken  murmurs  ?  Ah ! 

Tony.     As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we  grumble  a  little 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

now  and  then,  to  be  sure ;  but  there's  no  love  lost  be- 
tween us. 

Mrs.  Hardcasile.  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony,  upon 
the  flame,  only  to  make  it  burn  brighter. 

Miss  Neville.  Cousin  Tony  promises  us  to  give  us 
more  of  his  company  at  home.  Indeed,  he  shan't  leave 
us  any  more.  It  won't  leave  us,  cousin  Tony,  will  it  ? 

Tony.  Oh,  it's  a  pretty  creature.  No,  I'd  sooner 
leave  my  horse  in  a  pound,  than  leave  you  when  you 
smile  upon  one  so.  Your  laugh  makes  you  so  becom- 
ing. 

Miss  Neville.  Agreeable  cousin  !  Who  can  help  ad- 
miring that  natural  humor,  that  pleasant,  broad,  red, 
thoughtless  (patting  his  cheek}, —  ah!  it's  a  bold  face! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.     Pretty  innocence. 

Tony.  I'm  sure  I  always  loved  cousin  Con's  hazel 
eyes,  and  her  pretty  long  fingers,  that  she  twists  this 
way  and  that  over  haspicholls,  like  a  parcel  of  bobbins. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ah  !  he  would  charm  the  bird  from 
the  tree.  I  was  never  so  happy  before.  My  boy  takes 
after  his  father,  poor  Mr.  Lumpkin,  exactly.  The 
jewels,  my  dear  Con,  shall  be  yours  incontinently. 
You  shall  have  them.  Isn't  he  a  sweet  boy,  my  dear. 
You  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  and  we'll  put  off  the 
rest  of  his  education,  like  Dr.  Drowsy's  sermons,  to  a 
fitter  opportunity. 

jKnter  Diggory. 

Diggory.  Where's  the  Squire  ?  I  have  got  a  letter 
for  your  worship. 

Tony.  Give  it  to  my  mamma.  She  reads  all  my 
letters  first. 


340  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Diggory.  I  had  orders  to  deliver  it  into  yonr  own 
hands. 

Tony.     Who  does  it  come  from  ? 

Diggory.  Your  worship  mun  ask  that  o'  the  letter 
itself. 

Tony.  I  could  wish  to  know  though.  (  Turning  the 
letter,  and  gazing  on  it.) 

Miss  Neville.  (Axide.)  Undone  !  undone  !  A  letter 
to  him  from  Hastings  :  I  know  the  hand.  If  my  aunt 
sees  it,  we  are  ruined  forever.  I  '11  keep  her  employed 
a  little,  if  I  can.  ( To  Mrs.  Hardcastle)  But  I  have 
not  told  you,  madam,  of  my  cousin's  smart  answer  just 
now  to  Mr.  Marlow.  We  so  laughed — you  must  know, 
madam — This  way  a  little,  for  he  must  not  hear  us. 
(They  confer.) 

Tony.  (Stitt  gazing.)  A  damned  cramp  piece  of  pen- 
manship as  ever  I  saw  in  my  life.  I  can  read  your 
print-hand  very  well ;  but  here  there  are  such  handles, 
and  shanks,  and  dashes  that  one  can  scarce  tell  the  head 
from  the  tail.  "  To  Anthony  Lumpkin,  Esquire."  It's 
very  odd,  I  can  read  the  outside  of  my  letters,  where 
my  own  name  is,  well  enough.  But  when  I  come  to 
open  it,  it 's  all — buzz.  That 's  hard — very  hard ;  for 
the  inside  of  the  letter  is  always  the  cream  of  the  cor- 
respondence. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Very  well,  very  well. 
And  so  my  son  was  too  hard  for  the  philosopher  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Yes,  madam ;  but  you  must  hear  the 
rest,  madam.  A  little  more  this  way,  or  he  may  hear 
ua.  You  '11  hear  how  he  puzzled  him  again. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  He  seems  strangely  puzzled  now 
himself,  methinks. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.          341 

Tony.  (Still  gazing)  A  damned  up-and-down  hand, 
HS  if  it  was  disguised  in  liquor.  (Reading)  "  Dear 
Sir," — Ay,  that 's  that.  Then  there  's  an  M,  and  a  T, 
and  an  S,  but  whether  the  next  be  an  izzard  or  an  R, 
confound  me  I  cannot  tell. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  What 's  that,  my  dear  ;  can  I  give 
you  any  assistance  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it.  Nobody 
reads  a  cramp  hand  better  than  T.  (  Twitching  the  letter 
from  him.)  Do  you  know  who  it  is  from  ? 

Tony.  Can't  tell,  except  from  Dick  Ginger,  the 
feeder. 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  so  it  is ;  (pretending  to  read  )  Dear 
Squire,  hoping  that  you  're  in  health,  as  I  am  at  this 
present.  The  gentlemen  of  the  Shake  Bag  Club  has  cut 
the  gentlemen  of  the  Goose  Green  quite  out  of  feather. 
The  odds  —  um  —  odd  battle  —  um — long — fighting — 
um — here,  here,  it 's  all  about  cocks  and  fighting ;  it 's 
of  no  consequence — here,  put  it  up,  put  it  up.  (  Thrust- 
ing the  crumpled  letter  upon  him.) 

Tony.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it 's  of  all  the  conse- 
quence in  the  world.  I  would  not  lose  the  rest  of  it 
for  a  guinea.  Here,  mother,  do  you  make  it  out.  Of 
no  consequence !  [  Giving  Mrs.  Hardcastle  the  letter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  How's  this?  (Reads)  "Dear  Squire, 
I  'm  now  waiting  for  Miss  Neville,  with  a  postchaise  and 
pair,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  but  I  find  my  horses 
yet  unable  to  perform  the  journey.  I  expect  you  '11 
assist  us  with  a  pair  of  fresh  horses,  as  you  promised. 
Despatch  is  necessary,  as  the  hag  "  —  ay,  the  hag  — 
"your  mother,  will  otherwise  suspect  us.  Yours5 
29* 


342  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Hastings."  Grant  me  patience.  I  shall  run  distracted! 
My  rage  chokes  me  ! 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  madam,  you  '11  suspend  your 
resentment  for  a  few  moments,  and  not  impute  to  me 
any  impertinence,  or  sinister  design,  that  belongs  to 
another. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (  Courtesying  very  low)  Fine  spoken 
madam,  you  are  most  miraculously  polite  and  engaging, 
and  quite  the  very  pink  of  courtesy  and  circumspection, 
madam.  (  Changing  her  tone)  And  you,  you  great  ill- 
fashioned  oaf,  with  scarce  sense  enough  to  keep  your 
mouth  shut, — were  you  too  joined  against  me  ?  But  I'll 
defeat  all  your  plots  in  a  moment.  As  for  you,  madam, 
since  you  have  got  a  pair  of  fresh  horses  ready,  it  would 
be  cruel  to  disappoint  them.  So,  if  you  please,  instead 
of  running  away  with  your  spark,  prepare  this  very 
moment  to  run  off  with  me.  Your  old  aunt  Pedigree 
will  keep  you  secure,  I  '11  warrant  me.  You  too,  sir, 
may  mount  your  horse,  and  guard  us  upon  the  way. — 
Here,  Thomas,  Roger,  Diggory ! — I  '11  show  you  that  I 
wish  you  better  than  you  do  yourselves.  \Exit. 

Miss  Neville.     So,  now  I  'm  completely  ruined. 

Tony.     Ay,  that 's  a  sure  thing. 

Miss  Neville.  What  better  could  be  expected  from 
being  connected  with  such  a  stupid  fool,  and  after  all 
the  nods  and  signs  I  made  him. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your  own  clever- 
ness, and  not  my  stupidity,  that  did  your  business ! 
You  were  so  nice  and  so  busy  with  your  Shake  Bags 
and  Goose  Greens  that  I  thought  you  could  never  be 
making  believe. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  343 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  So,  sir,  I  find  by  my  servant  that  you 
have  shown  my  letter,  and  betrayed  us.  Was  this 
well  done,  young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  Here  's  another.  Ask  miss,  there,  who  be- 
trayed you.  Ecod !  it  was  her  doing,  not  mine. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  So,  I  have  been  finely  used  here  among 
you.  Rendered  contemptible,  driven  into  ill-manners, 
despised,  insulted,  laughed  at. 

Tony.  Here 's  another.  We  shall  have  all  Bedlam 
broke  loose  presently. 

Miss  Neville.  And  there,  sir,  is  the  gentleman  to 
whom  we  all  owe  every  obligation. 

Marlow.  What  can  I  say  to  him  ?  —  a  mere  boy, 
—  an  idiot,  —  whose  ignorance  and  age  are  a  protec- 
tion. 

Hastings.  A  poor,  contemptible  booby,  that  would 
but  disgrace  correction. 

Miss  Neville.  Yet  with  cunning  and  malice  enough 
to  make  himself  merry  with  all  our  embarrassments. 

Hastings.     An  insensible  cub. 

Marlow.     Replete  with  tricks  and  mischief. 

Tony.  Baw !  damme,  but  I  '11  fight  you  both,  one 
aJiter  the  other — with  baskets. 

Marlow.  As  for  him,  he 's  below  resentment.  But 
your  conduct,  Mr.  Hastings,  requires  an  explanation. 
You  knew  of  my  mistakes,  yet  would  not  undeceive 
me. 


344  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Hastings.  Tortured  as  1  am  with  my  own  disappoint- 
ments, is  this  a  time  for  explanations  ?  It  is  not  friendly, 
Mr.  Marlow. 

Marlow.     But,  sir 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept  on  your 
mistake,  till  it  was  too  late  to  undeceive  you.  Be 
pacified. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  My  mistress  desires  you  '11  get  ready  imme- 
diately, madam.  The  horses  are  putting-to.  Your  hat 
and  things  are  in  the  next  room.  We  are  to  go  thirty 
miles  before  morning. 

[Exit  /Servant. 

Miss  Neville.     Well,  well,  I  '11  come  presently. 

Marlow.  (To  Hastings.)  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  to 
assist  in  rendering  me  ridiculous  ? —  To  hang  me  out  for 
the  scorn  of  all  my  acquaintance  ?  Depend  upon  it,  sir, 
I  shall  expect  an  explanation. 

Hastings.  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  if  you  're  upon  that 
subject,  to  deliver  what  I  entrusted  to  yourself,  to  the 
care  of  another,  sir ! 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Hastings!  Mr.  Marlow!  Why  will 
you  increase  my  distress  by  this  groundless  dispute  ?  I 
implore  —  I  entreat  you 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Your  cloak,  madam.  My  mistress  is  impa- 
tient. [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Neville.  I  come.  Pray,  be  pacified.  If  I 
leave  you  thus,  I  shall  die  with  apprehension. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  345 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Your  fan,  muff,  and  gloves,  madam.  The 
horses  are  waiting.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Neville.  Oh,  Mr.  Marlow,  if  you  knew  what  a 
scene  of  constraint  and  ill-nature  lies  before  me,  I  am 
sure  it  would  convert  your  resentment  into  pity. 

Marlow.  I  'm  so  distracted  with  a  variety  of  passions 
that  I  do  n't  know  what  I  do.  Forgive  me,  madam. 
George,  forgive  me.  You  know  my  hasty  temper,  and 
should  not  exasperate  it. 

Hastings.  The  torture  of  my  situation  is  my  only 
excuse. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if  you  have 
that  esteem  for  me  that  I  think, —  that  I  am  sure  you 
have,  your  constancy  for  three  years  will  but  increase  the 
happiness  of  our  future  connection.  If 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Within.)  Miss  Neville!  Con- 
stance, why,  Constance,  I  say. 

Miss  Neville.  I  'm  coming !  Well,  constancy,  remem- 
ber, constancy  is  the  word.  [Exit. 

Hastings.  My  heart !  how  can  I  support  this  ?  To 
be  so  near  happiness,  and  such  happiness ! 

Marlow.  (To  Tony.)  You  see  now,  young  gentle- 
man, the  effects  of  your  folly.  What  might  be  amuse- 
ment to  you,  is  here  disappointment,  and  even  distress. 

Tony.  (From  a  reverie.)  Ecod,  I  have  hit  it :  it 's 
here !  Your  haads.  Yours,  and  yours,  my  poor  Sulky 
My  boots  there,  no !  —  Meet  me,  two  hours  hence,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden ;  and  if  you  do  n't  find  Tony  Lump- 
kin  a  more  good-natured  fellow  than  you  thought  for,  I  '11 


346  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

give  you  leave  to  take  my  best  horse,  and  Bet  Bounce? 
into  the  bargain.     Come  along      My  boots,  ho ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACT   FIFTH. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Servant. 

Hastings.  You  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Neville 
drive  off,  you  say  ? 

Servant.  Yes,  your  honor.  They  went  off  in  a 
post-coach,  and  the  young  Squire  went  on  horseback. 
They  're  thirty  miles  off  by  this  time. 

Hastings.     Then  all  my  hopes  are  over ! 

Servant.  Yes,  sir.  Old  Sir  Charles  is  arrived.  He 
and  the  old  gentleman  of  the  house  have  been  laughing 
at  Mr.  Marlow's  mistake  this  half  hour.  They  are 
coming  this  way.  [Exit. 

Hastings.  Then  I  must  not  be  seen.  So  now  to 
my  fruitless  appointment  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
This  is  about  the  time.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  The  peremptory  tone 
in  which  he  sent  forth  his  sublime  commands ! 

Sir  Charles.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I  suppose 
he  treated  all  your  advances. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  something 
in  me  above  a.  common  innkeeper,  too. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  347 

Sir  Charles.  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook  you  for  an  un- 
common innkeeper ;  ha !  ha !  ha  ! 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I  'm  in  too  good  spirits  to  think  of 
anything  but  joy.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  this  union  of  our 
families  will  make  our  personal  friendships  hereditary, 
and  though  my  daughter's  fortune  is  but  small 

Sir  Charles.  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of  fortune  to 
me  ?  My  son  is  possessed  of  more  than  a  competence  al- 
ready, and  can  want  nothing  but  a  good  and  virtuous  girl 
to  share  his  happiness  and  increase  it.  If  they  like  each 
other,  as  you  say  they  do 

Hardcastle.  If,  man !  I  tell  you  they  do  like  each  oth- 
er My  daughter  as  good  as  told  me  so. 

Sir  Charles.  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter  themselves, 
you  know. 

Hardcastle.  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the  warmest 
manner,  myself ;  and  here  he  comes  to  put  you  out  of 
your  ifs,  I  warrant  him. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  I  come,  sir,  once  more,  to  ask  pardon  for  my 
strange  conduct.  I  can  scarce  reflect  on  my  insolence 
without  confusion. 

Hardcastle.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle  You  take  it  too  grave- 
ly An  hour  or  two's  laughing  with  my  daughter,  will 
set  all  to  rights  again.  She  '11  never  like  you  the  worse 
for  it. 

Marlow.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of  her  approbation. 

Hardcastle.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr.  Mar- 
low  ;  if  I  am  not  deceived,  you  have  something  more  than 
approbation  thereabouts.  You  take  me ! 


348  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Marlow.     Really,  sir,  I  have  not  that  happiness. 

Hardcastle.  Come,  boy,  I  'm  an  old  fellow,  and 
know  what 's  what  as  well  as  you  that  are  younger.  I 
know  what  has  past  between  you ;  but  mum. 

Marlow.  Sure,  sir,  nothing  has  past  between  us  but 
the  most  profound  respect  on  my  side,  and  the  most 
distant  reserve  on  hers.  You  don't  think,  sir,  that  my 
impudence  has  been  past  upon  all  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Hardcastle.  Impudence!  No,  I  don't  say  that  — 
not  quite  impudence  —  though  girls  like  to  be  played 
with,  and  Crumpled  a  little,  too,  sometimes.  But  she 
has  told  no  tales,  I  assure  you. 

Marlow.     I  never  gave  her  the  slightest  cause. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  well,  I  like  modesty  in  its  place 
well  enough ;  but  this  is  over-acting,  young  gentleman. 
You  may  be  open.  Your  father  and  I  will  like  you 
the  better  for  it. 

Marlow.     May  I  die,  sir,  if  I  ever 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you  she  don't  dislike  you  ;  and 
as  I  am  sure  you  like  her 

Marlow.     Dear  sir,  I  protest,  sir 

Hardcastle.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be 
joined  as  fast  as  the  parson  can  tie  you. 

Marlow.     But  hear  me,  sir 

Hardcastle.  Your  father  approves  the  match,  I  ad- 
mire it;  every  moment's  delay  will  be  doing  mischief, 
so 

Marlow.  But  why  don't  you  hear  me  ?  By  all  that's 
just  and  true,  I  never  gave  Miss  Hardcastle  the  slight- 
est mark  of  my  attachment,  or  even  the  most  distant 
hint  to  suspect  me  of  affection.  We  had  but  one  inter- 
view, and  that  was  formal,  modest,  and  uninteresting. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  349 

Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  This  fellow's  formal,  modest 
impudence  is  beyond  bearing. 

Sir  Charles.  And  you  never  grasped  her  hand,  or 
made  any  protestations  ? 

Marlow.  As  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came  down 
in  obedience  to  your  commands ;  I  saw  the  lady  with- 
out  emotion,  and  parted  without  reluctance.  I  hope 
you  '11  exact  no  further  proofs  of  my  duty,  nor  prevent 
me  from  leaving  a  house  m  which  I  suffer  so  many 
mortifications.  \_Exit. 

Sir  Charles.  I  'm  astonished  at  the  air  of  sincerity 
with  which  he  parted. 

Hardcastle.  And  I  'm  astonished  at  the  deliberate 
intrepidity  of  his  assurance. 

Sir  Charles.  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and  honor  upon 
his  truth. 

Hardcastle.  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I  would 
stake  my  happiness  upon  her  veracity. 

jEnter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer  us 
sincerely,  and  without  reserve :  has  Mr.  Marlow  made 
you  any  professions  of  love  and  affection  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  The  question  is  very  abrupt,  sir. 
But  since  you  require  udreserved  sincerity  —  I  think 
he  has. 

Hardcastle.     (To  Sir  Charles)  You  see. 

Sir  Charles.  And,  pray,  madam,  have  you  and  my 
son  had  more  than  one  interview  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.     Yes,  sir,  several. 

Hardcastle.     (To  Sir  Charles)  You  see. 


350  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Sir  Charles.     But  did  he  profess  any  attachment  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.     A  lasting  one. 

Sir  Charles.     Did  he  talk  of  love  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.     Much,  sir. 

Sir  Charles.     Amazing !     And  all  this  formally  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.     Formally. 

Hardcastk.  Now,  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are  satisfied 

Sir  Charles.     And  how  did  he  behave,  madam  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  As  most  professed  admirers  do; 
said  some  civil  things  of  my  face ;  talked  much  of  his 
want  of  merit,  and  the  greatness  of  mine ;  mentioned 
his  heart,  gave  a  short  tragedy  speech,  and  ended  with 
pretended  rapture. 

Sir  Charles.  Now  I'm  perfectly  convinced,  indeed. 
I  know  his  conversation  among  women  to  be  modest 
and  submissive.  This  forward,  canting,  ranting  man- 
ner by  no  means  describes  him,  and,  I  am  confident, 
he  never  sat  for  the  picture. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  what,  sir,  if  I  should  con- 
vince you  to  your  face  of  my  sincerity  ?  If  you  and 
my  papa,  in  about  half  an  hour,  will  place  yourselves 
behind  that  screen,  you  shall  hear  him  declare  his  pas- 
sion to  me  in  person. 

Sir  Charles.  Agreed.  And  if  I  find  him  what  you 
describe,  all  my  happiness  in  him  must  have  an  end. 

[Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  you  don't  find  him  what  I 
describe,  I  fear  my  happiness  must  never  have  a  be- 
ginning* 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  351 

SCENE  CHANGES  TO  THE  BACK  OF  THE  GARDEN. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  What  an  idiot  am  I  to  wait  here  for  a 
fellow  who  probably  takes  a  delight  in  mortifying  me. 
He  never  intended  to  be  punctual,  and  I'll  wait  no 
longer.  What  do  I  see  ?  It  is  he  !  and  perhaps  with 
news  of  my  Constance. 

Enter  Tony,  booted  and  spattered. 

Hastings.  My  honest  Squire !  I  now  find  you  a 
man  of  your  word.  This  looks  like  friendship. 

Tony.  Ay,  I'm  your  friend,  and  the  best  friend  you 
have  in  the  world,  if  you  knew  but  all.  This  riding  by 
night,  by  the  by,  is  cursedly  tiresome.  It  has  shook 
me  worse  than  the  basket  of  a  stage-coach. 

Hastings.  But  how  ?  where  did  you  leave  your  fel- 
low-travellers ?  Are  they  in  safety  ?  Are  they  housed  ? 

Tony.  Five-and-twenty  miles  in  two  hours  and  a 
half  is  no  such  bad  driving.  The  poor  beasts  have 
smoked  for  it :  rabbit  me !  but  I'd  rather  ride  forty 
miles  after  a  fox,  than  ten  with  such  varmint. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  where  have  you  left  the  ladies  ? 
I  die  with  impatience. 

Tony.  Left  them !  Why,  where  should  I  leave 
them  but  where  I  found  them  ? 

Hastings.     This  is  a  riddle. 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this,  then.  What's  that  goe3 
round  the  house,  and  round  the  house,  and  neve! 
touches  the  house  ? 

Hastings.     I'm  still  astray. 


352  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Tony.  Why,  that's  it,  mun.  I  have  led  them  astray. 
By  jingo,  there's  not  a  pond  nor  a  slough  within  five 
miles  of  the  place  but  they  can  tell  the  taste  of. 

Hastings.  Ha !  ha  !  ha !  I  understand :  you  took 
them  in  a  round  while  they  supposed  themselves  going 
forward,  and  so  you  have  at  last  brought  them  home 
again. 

Tony.  You  shall  hear.  I  first  took  them  down 
Feather-bed  Lane,  where  we  stuck  fast  in  the  mud.  I 
then  rattled  them  crack  over  the  stones  of  Up-and- 
down  Hill.  I  then  introduced  them  to  the  gibbet  on 
Heavy-tree  Heath  ;  and  from  that,  with  a  circumbendi- 
bus, I  fairly  lodged  them  in  the  horse-pond  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  garden. 

Hastings.     But  no  accident,  I  hope  ? 

Tony.  No,  no ;  only  mother  is  confoundedly  fright- 
ened. She  thinks  herself  forty  miles  off.  She's  sick  of 
the  journey ;  and  the  cattle  can  scarce  crawl.  So,  if 
your  own  horses  be  ready,  you  may  whip  off  with 
cousin,  and  I'll  be  bound  that  no  soul  here  can  budge 
a  foot  to  follow  you. 

Hastings.     My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be  grateful  ? 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it's  dear  friend?  noble  Squire! 
Just  now,  it  was  all  idiot,  cub,  and  run  me  through  the 
guts.  Damn  your  way  of  fighting,  I  say.  After  we  take 
a  knock  in  this  part  of  the  country,  we  kiss  and  be 
friends.  But  if  you  had  run  me  through  the  guts,  then 
I  should  be  dead,  and  you  might  go  kiss  the  hangman. 

Hastings.  The  rebuke  is  just.  But  I  must  hasten  to 
relieve  Miss  Neville :  if  you  keep  the  old  lady  employed, 
I  promise  to  take  care  of  the  young  one. 

[Exit  Hasting*. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  353 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Here  she  comes ;  vanish. 
She  's  got  from  the  pond,  and  draggled  up  to  the  waist 
like  a  mermaid. 

Mnter  Mrs.  Hardcastk. 

Mrs.  Hardcastk.  Oh,  Tony,  I'm  killed.  Shook! 
Battered  to  death !  I  shall  never  survive  it.  That 
last  jolt,  that  laid  us  against  the  quickset-hedge,  has 
done  my  business. 

Tony.  Alack,  mamma  !  it  was  all  your  own  fault. 
You  would  be  for  running  away  by  night,  without 
knowing  one  inch  of  the  way. 

Mrs.  Hardcasile.  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again.  I 
never  met  so  many  accidents  in  so  short  a  journey. 
Drenched  in  the  mud,  overturned  in  a  ditch,  stuck  fast 
in  a  slough,  jolted  to  a  jelly,  and  at  last  to  lose  our  way ! 
Whereabouts  do  you  think  we  are,  Tony  ? 

Tony.  By  my  guess,  we  should  be  upon  Crack- 
skull  Common,  about  forty  miles  from  home. 

Mrs.  Hardcastk.  O  lud !  O  lud !  The  most  noto- 
rious spot  in  all  the  country.  We  only  want  a  rob- 
bery to  make  a  complete  night  on't. 

Tony.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma ;  don't  be  afraid. 
Two  of  the  five  that  kept  here  are  hanged,  and  the 
other  three  may  not  find  us.  Don't  be  afraid. — Is 
that  a  man  that's  galloping  behind  us.  No,  it's  only 
a  tree. — Don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcastk.     The  fright  will  certainly  kill  me. 

Tony.  Do  you  see  anything  like  a  black  hat  mor- 
ing  behind  the  thicket  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastk.     Oh,  death ! 
30* 


354  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Tony.    No ;  it 's  only  a  cow.    Don't  be  afraid,  n 
ma,  don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  As  I  'm  alive,  Tony,  I  see  a  man 
coming  towards  us.  Ah,  I  am  sure  on  't.  If  he  per- 
ceives  us,  we  are  undone. 

Tony.  (Axide.)  Father-in-law,  by  all  that's  unlucky 
come  to  take  one  of  his  night  walks.  (  To  her)  Ah,  it's 
a  highwayman,  with  pistols  as  long  as  my  arm.  A 
damned  ill-looking  fellow ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Good  Heaven,  defend  us !  He 
approaches. 

Tony.  Do  you  hide  yourself  in  that  thicket,  and 
leave  me  to  manage  him.  If  there  be  any  danger,  I'll 
cough,  and  cry  hem.  When  I  cough,  be  sure  to  keep 
close.  [Mrs.  Hardcastle  hides  behind  a  tree  in  the  back 
scene. 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  I  'm  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of  peo- 
ple in  want  of  help.  Oh,  Tony,  is  that  you  ?  I  did 
not  expect  you  so  soon  back.  Are  your  mother  and 
/her  charge  in  safety  ? 

Tony.     Very  safe,  sir,  at  my  aunt  Pedigree's.   Hem. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (From  behind)  Ah,  death !  I  find 
there 's  danger. 

Hardcastle.  Forty  miles  in  three  hours  ;  sure  that's 
too  much,  my  youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  willing  minds  make  short 
journeys,  as  they  say.  Hem. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle..  (From  behind)  Sure,  he  '11  do  *to 
dear  boy  no  harm. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  355 

Hardcastle.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here  ;  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  from  whence  it  came. 

Tony.  It  was  I,  sir,  talking  to  myself,  sir.  I  was 
saying  that  forty  miles  in  four  hours  was  very  good 
going.  Hem.  As  to  be  sure  it  was.  Hem.  I  have 
got  a  sort  of  c£>ld  by  being  out  in  the  air.  We'll  go 
in,  if  you  please.  Hem. 

Hardcastle.  But  if  you  talked  to  yourself,  you  did  not 
answer  yourself.  I  'm  certain  I  heard  two  voices,  and 
am  resolved  (raising  his  voice)  to  find  the  other  out. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (From  behind.}  Oh  !  he  '&  coming 
to  find  me  out.  Oh ! 

Tony.  What  need  you  go,  sir,  if  I  tell  you  ?  Hem. 
I  '11  lay  down  my  life  for  the  truth — hem — I  '11  tell  you 
all,  sir.  [Detaining  him. 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  he  detained.  I  in- 
sist on  seeing.  It 's  in  vain  to  expect  I  '11  believe  you. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Running  forward  from  behind.) 
O  lud  !  he'll  murder  my  poor  boy,  my  darling  !  Here, 
good  gentleman,  whet  your  rage  upon  me.  Take  my 
money,  my  life,  but  spare  that  young  gentleman  ;  spare 
my  child  if  you  have  any  mercy. 

Hardcastle.  My  wife,  as  I'm  a  Christian.  From 
whence  can  she  have  come  ?  or  what  does  she  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Kneeling.)  Take  compassion  on 
us,  good  Mr.  Highwayman.  Take  our  money,  our 
watches,  all  we  have,  but  spare  our  lives.  We  will 
never  bring  you  to  justice  ;  indeed  we  won't,  good  Mr. 
Highwayman. 

Hardcastle.  I  believe  the  woman  's  out  of  her  senses. 
What,  Dorothy,  don't  you  know  me  ? 


356  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I'm  alive! 
My  fears  blinded  me.  But  who,  my  dear,  could  have 
expected  to  meet  you  here,  in  this  frightful  place,  so  far 
from  home  ?  What  has  brought  you  to  follow  us  ? 

Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  have  not  lost  your 
wits  ?  So  far  from  home,  when  you  ar.e  within  forty 
yards  of  your  own  door !  (  To  him.)  This  is  one  of 
your  old  tricks,  you  graceless  rogue,  you.  (  To  her.) 
Don't  you  know  the  gate  and  the  mulberry  tree  ?  and 
don't  you  remember  the  horse-pond,  my  dear  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the  horse- 
pond  as  long  as  I  live ;  I  have  caught  my  death  in  it. 
(  To  Tony.)  And  is  it  to  you,  you  graceless  varlet,  I  owe 
all  this  ?  I'll  teach  you  to  abuse  your  mother — I  will. 

Tony.  Ecod,  mother,  all  the  parish  says  you  have 
spoiled  me,  and  so  you  may  take  the  fruits  on't. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.     I  '11  spoil  you,  I  will. 

[Follows  him  off  the  stage. 

Hardcastle.    There  's  morality,  however,  in  his  reply. 

[Exit. 
Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Constance,  why  will  you  delibe- 
rate thus  ?  If  we  delay  a  moment,  all  is  lost  forever. 
Pluck  up  a  little  resolution,  and  we  shall  soon  be  out 
of  the  reach  of  her  malignity. 

Miss  Neville.  I  find  it  impossible.  My  spirits  are  so 
sunk  with  the  agitations  I  have  suffered,  that  I  am 
unable  to  face  any  new  danger.  Two  or  three  years' 
patience  will  at  last  crown  us  with  happiness. 

Hastings.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse  than  incon- 
stancy. Let  us  fly,  my  charmer !  Let  us  date  our 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  357 

happiness  from  this  very  moment.  Perish  fortune. 
Love  and  content  will  increase  what  we  possess  beyond 
a  monarch's  revenue.  Let  me  prevail ! 

Miss  Neville.  No,  Mr.  Hasting^  no.  Prudence  once 
more  comes  to  my  relief,  and  I  will  obey  its  dictates. 
In  the  moment  of  passion,  fortune  may  be  despised,  but 
it  ever  produces  a  lasting  repentance.  I'm  resolved  to 
apply  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's  compassion  and  justice  for 
redress. 

Hastings.  But  though  he  had  the  will,  he  has  not 
the  power,  to  relieve  you. 

Miss  Neville.  But  he  has  influence,  and  upon  that 
I  am  resolved  to  rely. 

Hastings.  I  have  no  hopes.  But,  since  you  persist, 
I  must  reluctantly  obey  you.  \_Exeunt, 

SCENE  CHANGES. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Marlow  and  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Sir  Charles.  What  a  situation  am  I  in !  If  what 
you  say  appears,  I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.  If 
what  he  says  be  true,  I  shall  then  lose  one  that,  of  all 
others,  I  most  wished  for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  am  proud  of  your  approbation  ; 
and  to  show  I  merit  it,  if  you  place  yourselves  as  I 
directed,  you  shall  hear  his  explicit  declaration.  But 
he  comes. 

Sir  Charles.  I'll  to  your  father,  and  keep  him  to 
the  appointment.  \_Exit  Sir  Charlet. 

Enter  Marlow. 
Marlow.  Though  prepared  for  setting  out,  I  come  once 


358  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

more  to  take  leave :  nor  did  I,  till  this  moment,  know 
the  pain  I  feel  in  the  separation. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (In  her  own  natural  manner]  I 
believe  these  sufferings  cannot  be  very  great,  sir,  which 
you  can  so  easily  remove.  A  day  or  two  longer,  per- 
haps, might  lessen  your  uneasiness,  by  showing  the 
little  value  of  what  you  now  think  proper  to  regret. 

Marlow.  (Aside)  This  girl  every  moment  improves 
upon  me.  ( To  her)  It  must  not  be,  madam ;  I  have 
already  trifled  too  long  with  my  heart.  My  very  pride 
begins  to  submit  to  my  passion.  The  disparity  of 
education  and  fortune,  the  anger  of  a  parent,  and  the 
contempt  of  my  equals,  begin  to  lose  their  weight ;  and 
nothing  can  restore  me  to  myself  but  this  painful  effort 
of  resolution. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  go,  sir ;  I  '11  urge  nothing 
more  to  detain  you.  Though  my  family  be  as  good  as 
hers  you  came  down  to  visit,  and  my  education,  I  hope, 
not  inferior,  what  are  these  advantages  without  equal 
affluence?  I  must  remain  contented  with  the  slight 
approbation  of  imputed  merit ;  I  must  have  only  the 
mockery  of  your  addresses,  while  all  your  serious  aims 
are  fixed  on  fortune. 

Enter  Hardcastle  and  Sir  Charles  Marlow ',  from  behind. 

Sir  Charles.     Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  ay  ;  make  no  noise.  I  '11  engage 
my  Kate  covers  him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Marlow.  By  Heaven !  madam,  fortune  was  ever 
my  smallest  consideration.  Your  beauty  at  first  caught 
my  eye ;  for  who  could  see  that  without  emotion  ? 
But  every  moment  that  I  converse  with  you,  steals  in 
some  new  grace,  heightens  the  picture,  and  gives  it 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  359 

stronger  expression.  What  at  first  seemed  rustic  plain- 
ness, now  appears  refined  simplicity.  "What  seemed 
forward  assurance,  now  strikes  me  as  the  result  of 
courageous  innocence  and  conscious  virtue. 

Sir  Charles.     What  can  it  mean  ?     He  amazes  me ! 

Hardcastle.     I  told  you  how  it  would  be.     Hush ! 

Marlow.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  madam,  and 
I  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  my  father's  discernment, 
when  he  sees  you,  to  doubt  his  approbation. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not,  can- 
not detain  you.  Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  ,a  connec- 
tion in  which  there  is  the  smallest  room  for  repent- 
ance ?  Do  you  think  I  would  take  the  mean  advantage 
of  a  transient  passion  to  load  you  with  confusion  ?  Do 
you  think  I  could  ever  relish  that  happiness  which  was 
acquired  by  lessening  yours  ? 

Marlow.  By  all  that's  good,  I  can  have  no  happi- 
ness but  what's  in  your  power  to  grant  me  !  Nor  shall 
I  ever  feel  repentance  but  in  not  having  seen  your 
merits  before.  I  will  stay  even  contrary  to  your 
wishes ;  and  though  you  should  persist  to  shun  me,  I 
will  make  my  respectful  assiduties  atone  for  the  levity 
of  my  past  conduct. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you'll  desist. 
As  our  acquaintance  began,  so  let  it  end,  in  indiffer- 
ence. I  might  have  given  an  hour  or  two  to  levity ; 
but  seriously,  Mr.  Marlow,  do  you  think  I  could  ever 
submit  to  a  connection  where  I  must  appear  mercenary, 
and  you  imprudent  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  catch 
at  the  confident  addresses  of  a  secure  admirer. 

Marlow.      (Kneeling)    Does  this  look  like  security! 


360  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

Does  this  look  like  confidence?  No,  madam,  every 
moment  that  shows  me  your  merit,  only  serves  to  in- 
crease my  diffidence  and  confusion.  Here  let  me  con- 
tinue . 

Sir  Charles.  I  can  hold  it  no  longer.  Charles, 
Charles,  how  hast  thou  deceived  me !  Is  this  your  in- 
difference, your  uninteresting  conversation  ? 

Hardcastle.  Your  cold  contempt :  your  formal  inter- 
view !  What  have  you  to  say  now  ? 

Marlow.  That  I'm  all  amazement !  What  can  it 
mean? 

Hardcastle.  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  unsay 
things  at  pleasure ;  that  you  can  address  a  lady  in 
private,  and  deny  it  in  public ;  that  you  have  one  story 
for  us,  and  another  for  my  daughter. 

Marlow.     Daughter !  —  This  lady  your  daughter  ? 

Hardcasth.  Yes,  sir,  my  only  daughter  —  my  Kate ; 
whose  else  should  she  be  ? 

Marlow.     Oh,  the  devil ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  that  very  identical  tall, 
squinting  lady  you  were  pleased  to  take  me  for  (courtesy- 
ing);  she  that  you  addressed  as  the  mild,  modest,  senti- 
mental man  of  gravity,  and  the  bold,  forward,  agree- 
able Rattle  of  the  ladies'  club.  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Marlow.  Zounds,  there  's  no  bearing  this  ;  it's  worse 
than  death ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  In  which  of  your  characters,  sir, 
will  you  give  us  leave  to  address  you  ?  As  the  falter- 
ing gentleman,  which  looks  on  the  ground,  that  speaks, 
just  to  be  heard,  and  hates  hypocrisy ;  or  the  loud, 
confident  creature,  that  keeps  it  up  with  Mrs.  Mantrap, 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  36} 

and  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  till  three  in  the  morn< 
ing !  —  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Marlow.  Oh,  curse  on  my  noisy  head!  I  never 
attempted  to  be  impudent  yet  that  I  was  not  taken 
down.  I  must  be  gone. 

Hardcastle.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you  shall 
not.  I  see  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and  I  am  rejoiced  to 
find  it.  You  shall  not  stir,  I  tell  you.  I  know  she'll 
forgive  you.  Won't  you  forgive  him,  Kate?  We'll 
all  forgive  you.  Take  courage,  man. 

[  They  retire,  she  tormenting  him  to  the  back  scene. 

Miter  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Tony. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  So,  so,  they  're  gone  off.  Let 
them  go,  I  care  not. 

Hardcastle.     Who  gone  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gentle- 
man, Mr.  Hastings,  from  town.  He  who  came  down 
with  our  modest  visitor  here. 

Sir  Charles.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hastings  ?  As 
worthy  a  fellow  as  lives,  and  the  girl  could  not  have 
made  a  more  prudent  choice. 

Hardcastle.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I'm 
proud  of  the  connection. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away  the 
lady,  he  has  not  taken  her  fortune ;  that  remains  in 
this  family  to  console  us  for  her  loss. 

Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so 
mercenary  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.     Ay,  that's  my  affair,  not  yours. 

Hardcastle.  But  you  know  if  your  son,  when  of 
31 


362  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

age.  refuses  to  marry  his  cousin,  her  whole  fortune  is 
then  at  her  own  disposal. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  but  he's  not  of  age,  and  she 
has  not  thought  proper  to  wait  for  his  refusal. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Aside)  What,  returned  so  soon. 
I  begin  not  to  like  it. 

Hastings.  (To  Hardcastle)  For  my  late  attempt 
to  fly  off  with  your  niece,  let  my  present  confusion  he 
my  punishment.  We  are  now  come  back,  to  appeal 
from  your  justice  to  your  humanity.  By  her  father's 
consent  I  first  paid  her  my  addresses,  and  our  passions 
were  first  founded  in  duty. 

Miss  Neville.  Since  his  death,  I  have  been  obliged 
to  stoop  to  dissimulation  to  avoid  oppression.  In  an 
hour  of  levity,  I  was  ready  even  to  give  up  my  fortune 
to  secure  my  choice  :  But  I  am  now  recovered  from  the 
delusion,  and  hope,  from  your  tenderness,  what  is 
denied  me  from  a  nearer  connection. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pshaw !  pshaw ;  this  is  all  but 
the  whining  end  of  a  modern  novel. 

Hardcastle.  Be  it  what  it  will,  I'm  glad  they're 
come  back  to  reclaim  their  due.  Come  hither,  Tony, 
boy.  Do  you  refuse  this  lady's  hand,  whom  I  now 
offer  you  ? 

Tony.  What  signifies  my  refusing  ?  You  know  I 
can't  refuse  her  till  I'm  of  age,  father. 

Hardcastle.  While  I  thought  concealing  your  age, 
boy,  was  likely  to  conduce  to  your  improvement,  I 
concurred  with  your  mother's  desire  to  keep  it  secret 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  363 

But  since  I  find  she  turns  it  to  a  wrong  use,  I  must 
now  declare  you  have  been  of  age  these  three  months. 

Tony.     Of  age  !     Am  I  of  age,  father  ? 

Hardcastle.     Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you  '11  see  the  first  use  I  '11  make  of 
my  liberty.  ( Taking  Miss  Neville  s  hand  )  Witness  all 
men,  by  these  presents,  that  I,  Anthony  Lurnpkin, 
esquire,  of  BLANK  place,  refuse  you,  Constantia  Neville, 
spinster,  of  no  place  at  all,  for  my  true  and  lawful  wife. 
So  Constance  Neville  may  marry  whom  she  pleases, 
and  Tony  Lumpkin  is  his  own  man  again. 

Sir  Charles.     O  brave  Squire ! 

Hastings.     My  worthy  friend  ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.     My  undutiful  offspring ! 

Marlow.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you  joy  sin- 
cerely !  And,  could  I  prevail  upon  my  little  tyrant 
here  to  be  less  arbitrary,  I  should  be  the  happiest  man 
alive,  if  you  would  return  me  the  favor. 

Hastings.  {To  Miss  Hardcastle)  Come,  madam, 
you  are  now  driven  to  the  very  last  scene  of  all  your 
contrivances.  I  know  you  like  him,  Fm  sure  he  loves 
you,  and  you  must  and  shall  have  him. 

Hardcastle.  (Joining  their  hands)  And  I  say  so, 
too.  And,  Mr.  Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good  a  wife 
as  she  has  a  daughter,  I  do  n't  believe  you  '11  ever  re- 
pent your  bargain.  So  now  to  supper.  To-morrow 
we  shall  gather  all  the  poor  of  the  parish  about  us,  and 
the  mistakes  of  the  night  shall  be  crowned  with  a  merry 
morning.  So,  boy,  take  her ;  and  as  you  have  been 
mistaken  in  the  mistress,  my  wish  is,  that  you  may 
never  be  mistaken  in  the  wife.  \_Exeunt  Omnes, 


364  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 


EPILOGUE. 

BY   DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

SPOKEN   BY    MBS.   BULKLEY    IN    THE    CHARACTER   Of   MISS 
HARDCA8TLE. 

WELL,  having  stoop'd  to  conquer  with  success, 
And  gain'd  a  husband  without  aid  from  dress, 
Still,  as  a  bar-maid,  I  could  wish  it  too, 
As  I  have  conquer'd  him  to  conquer  you : 
And  let  me  say,  for  all  your  resolution, 
That  pretty  bar-maids  have  done  execution. 
Our  life  is  all  a  play,  composed  to  please ; 
'We  have  our  exits  and  our  entrances.' 
The  first  act  shows  the  simple  country  maid. 
Harmless  and  young,  of  everything  afraid ; 
Blushes  when  hired,  and,  with  unmeaning  action, 
*  I  hopes  as  how  to  give  you  satisfaction. ' 
Her  second  act  displays  a  livelier  scene, — 
TV  unblushing  bar-maid  of  a  country  inn, 
Who  whisks  about  the  house,  at  market  caters, 
Talks  loud,  coquets  the  guests,  and  scolds  the  waiters 
Next  the  scene  shifts  to  town,  and  there  she  soars. 
The  chop-house  toast  of  ogling  connoisseurs  ; 
On  squires  and  cits  she  there  displays  her  arts, 
And  on  the  gridiron  broils  her  lovers'  hearts; 
And,  as  she  smiles,  her  triumphs  to  complete, 
E'en  common-councilraen  forget  to  eat. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER.  365 

The  fourth  act  shews  her  wedded  to  the  squire, 
And  madam  now  begins  to  hold  it  higher; 
Pretends  to  taste,  at  opera  cries  caro, 
And  quits  her  Nancy  Dawson  for  Che  Faro : 
Boats  upon  dancing,  and,  in  all  her  pride, 
Swims  round  the  room,  the  Heinel  of  Cheapside, 
Ogles  and  leers,  with  artificial  skill, 
Till,  having  lost  in  age  the  power  to  kill, 
She  sits  all  night  at  cards,  and  ogles  at  spadille 
Such,  through  our  lives,  th'  eventful  history ! 
The  fifth  and  last  act  still  remains  for  me : 
The  bar-maid  now  for  your  protection  prays, 
Turns  female  Barrister,  and  pleads  for  Bays 


366  SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER. 

EPILOGUE,* 

K>  BE  SPOKEN  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OF  TONY  LUMPKIH, 

BY  J.  CRADOCK,  ESQ. 

WELL,  now  all's  ended,  and  my  comrades  gone 
Pray  what  becomes  of  mother's  nonly  son  ? 
A.  hopeful  blade!  —  in  town  I'll  fix  my  station, 
And  try  to  make  a  bluster  in  the  nation : 
As  for  my  cousin  Neville,  I  renounce  her  — 
Off,  in  a  crack,  I'll  carry  big  Bet  Bouncer. 

Why  should  not  I  in  the  great  world  appear  ? 
I  soon  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  a  year ! 
No  matter  what  a  man  may  here  inherit, 
In  London — gad,  they've  some  regard  to  spirit. 
I  see  the  horses  prancing  up  the  streets, 
And  big  Bet  Bouncer  bobs  to  all  she  meets ; 
Then  hoiks  to  jigs  and  pastimes  every  night  — 
Not  to  the  plays  —  they  say  it  ain't  polite : 
To  Sadler's  Wells,  perhaps,  or  operas  go, 
And  once,  by  chance,  to  the  roratorio. 
Thus,  here  and  there,  forever  up  and  down ; 
We'll  set  the  fashions,  too,  to  half  the  town ; 
And  then  at  auctions  —  money  ne'er  regard  — 
Buy  pictures,  like  the  great,  ten  pounds  a-yard: 
Zounds !  we  shall  make  these  London  gentry  say, 
We  know  what's  damn'd  genteel  as  well  as  they ! 

*  This  came  too  late  to  be  spoken. 


ESSAYS. 
INTRODUCTION- 
THERE  is  not,  perhaps,  a  more  whimsical  figure  in 
nature,  than  a  man  of  real  modesty  who  assumes  an  air 
of  impudence  ;  who,  while  his  heart  heate  with  anxiety 
studies  ease  and  affects  good-humor.  In  this  situation, 
however,  every  unexperienced  writer,  as  I  am,  finds 
himself.  Impressed  with  terrors  of  the  tribunal  before 
which  he  is  going  to  appear,  his  natural  humor  turns 
to  pertness,  and  for  real  wit  he  is  obliged  to  substitute 
vivacity. 

For  my  part,  as  I  was  never  distinguished  for  address, 
and  have  often  even  blundered  in  making  my  bow.  I  am 
at  a  loss  whether  to  be  merry  or  sad  on  this  solemn  oc- 
casion. Should  I  modestly  decline  all  merit,  it  is  too 
probable  the  hasty  reader  may  take  me  at  my  word. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  like  laborers  in  the  magazine 
trade,  I  humbly  presume  to  promise  an  epitome  of  all 
the  good  things  that  were  ever  said  or  written,  those 
readers  I  most  desire  to  please  may  forsake  me. 

My  bookseller,  in  this  dilemma,  perceiving  my  emb?r~ 
rassment,  instantly  offered  his  assistance  and  advice. 
"You  must  know,  sir,"  says  he,  "that  the  republic  of 
letters  is  at  present  divided  into  several  classes.  One 
writer  excels  at  a  plan  or  a  title-page  ;  another  works 
away  at  the  body  of  the  book ;  and  a  third  is  a  dab  at  an 
index.  Thus  a  magazine  is  not  the  result  of  any  single 


368  ESSAYS. 

man's  industry,  but  goes  through  as  many  hands  as  a 
new  pin,  before  it  is  fit  for  the  public.  I  fancy,  sir,"  con- 
tinues he,  "  I  can  provide  an  eminent  hand,  and  upon 
moderate  terms,  to  draw  up  a  promising  plan  to  smooth 
up  our  readers  a  little ;  and  pay  them,  as  Colonel 
Chartres  paid  his  seraglio,  at  the  rate  of  three-half- 
pence in  hand,  and  three  shillings  more  in  promises." 

He  was  proceeding  in  his  advice,  which,  however,  I 
thought  proper  to  decline,  by  assuring  him,  that  as  I 
intended  to  pursue  no  fixed  method,  so  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  form  any  regular  plan ;  determined  never  to  be 
tedious  in  order  to  be  logical ;  wherever  pleasure  pre- 
sented, I  was  resolved  to  follow. 

It  will  be  improper,  therefore,  to  pall  the  reader's 
curiosity  by  lessening  his  surprise,  or  anticipate  any 
pleasure  I  am  to  procure  him,  by  saying  what  shall 
come  next.  Happy,  could  any  effort  of  mine  but  repress 
one  criminal  pleasure,  or  but  for  a  moment  fill  up  an 
interval  of  anxiety  ?  How  gladly  would  I  lead  mankind 
from  the  vain  prospects  of  life,  to  prospects  of  inno- 
cence and  ease,  where  every  breeze  breathes  health,  and 
every  sound  is  but  the  echo  of  tranquility ! 

But  whatever  may  be  the  merit  of  his  intentions, 
every  writer  is  now  convinced  that  he  must  be  chiefly 
indebted  to  good  fortune  for  finding  readers  willing  to 
allow  him  any  degree  of  reputation.  It  has  been  re- 
marked, that  almost  every  character  which  has  excited 
either  attention  or  pity,  has  owed  part  of  its  success  to 
merit,  and  part  to  a  happy  concurrence  of  circumstances 
in  its  favor.  Had  Caesar  or  Cromwell  exchanged  coun- 
tries, the  one  might  have  been  a  serjeant,  and  the  other 


ESSAYS.  360 

an  exciseman.  So  it  is  with  wit,  which  generally  suc- 
ceeds more  from  being  happily  addressed,  than  from  its 
native  poignancy.  A  jest  calculated  to  spread  at  a  gam- 
ing-table, may  be  received  with  perfect  indifference 
should  it  happen  to  drop  in  a  mackerel-boat.  We  have 
all  seen  dunces  triumph  in  some  companies,  where  men 
of  real  humor  were  disregarded,  by  a  general  combina- 
tion in  favor  of  stupidity.  To  drive  the  observation  as 
far  as  it  will  go,  should  the  labors  of  a  writer,  who  de- 
signs his  performances  for  readers  of  a  more  refined 
appetite,  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  devourer  of  compila- 
tions, what  can  he  expect  but  contempt  aud  confusion  ? 
If  his  merits  are  to  be  determined  by  judges  who  esti- 
mate the  value  of  a  book  from  its  bulk,  or  its  frontis- 
piece, every  rival  must  acquire  an  easy  superiority, 
who  with  persuasive  eloquence  promises  four  extra- 
ordinary pages  of  letter-press,  or  three  beautiful  prints, 
curiously  colored  from  Nature. 

Thus,  then,  though  I  cannot  promise  as  much  en- 
tertainment, or  as  much  elegance,  as  others  have  done, 
yet  the  reader  may  be  assured  he  shall  have  as  much 
of  both  as  I  can.  He  shall,  at  least,  find  me  alive 
while  I  study  his  entertainment ;  for  I  solemnly  as- 
sure him  I  was  never  yet  possessed  of  the  secret  of 
writing  and  sleeping. 

During  the  course  of  this  paper,  therefore,  all  the 
wit  and  learning  I  have,  are  heartily  at  his  service ; 
which,  if,  after  so  candid  a  confession,  he  should,  not- 
withstanding, still  find  intolerably  dull?  or  low,  or  sad 
stuff,  this  I  protest  is  more  than  I  know ;  I  have  a 
clear  conscience,  and  am  entirely  out  of  the  secret. 


370  ESSAYS. 

Yet  I  would  not  have  him,  upon  the  perusal  of  a  single 
paper,  pronounce  me  incorrigible  ;  he  may  try  a  second, 
which,  as  there  is  a  studied  difference  in  subject  and 
style,  may  be  more  suited  to  his  taste  ;  if  this  also  fails, 
I  must  refer  him  to  a  third,  or  even  a  fourth,  in  case  of 
extremity :  if  he  should  still  continue  refractory,  and 
find  me  dull  to  the  last,  I  must  inform  him,  with  Bayes 
in  the  Rehearsal,  that  I  think  him  a  very  odd  kind  of 
fellow,  and  desire  no  more  of  his  acquaintance  ;  but  still, 
if  my  readers  impute  the  general  tenor  of  my  subject 
to  me  as  a  fault,  I  must  beg  leave  to  tell  them  a  story. 
A  traveller,  in  his  way  to  Italy,  found  himself  in  a  coun- 
try where  the  inhabitants  had  each  a  large  excrescence 
depending  from  the  chin  ;  a  deformity  which,  as  it  was 
endemic,  and  the  people  little  used  to  strangers,  it  had 
been  the  custom,  time  immemorial,  to  look  upon  as  the 
greatest  beauty.  Ladies  grew  toasts  from  the  size  of 
their  chins,  and  no  men  were  beaux  whose  faces  were 
not  broadest  at  the  bottom.  It  was  Sunday ;  a  country- 
church  was  at  hand,  and  our  traveller  was  willing  to  per- 
form the  duties  of  the  day.  Upon  his  first  appearance 
at  the  church-door,  the  eyes  of  all  were  fixed  on  the 
stranger ;  but  what  was  their  amazement,  when  they 
found  that  he  actually  wanted  that  emblem  of  beauty,  a 
pursed  chin !  Stifled  bursts  of  laughter,  winks,  and  whis- 
pers, circulated  from  visage  to  visage  ;  the  prismatic  fig- 
ure of  the  stranger's  face,  was  a  fund  of  infinite  gaiety. 
Our  traveller  could  no  longer  patiently  continue  an  ob- 
ject of  deformity  to  point  at.  "  Good  folks,"  said  he,  <fc  I 
perceive  that  I  am  a  very  ridiculous  figure  here,  but  I 
assure  you  I  am  reckoned  no  way  deformed  ut  home." 


ESSAYS.  371 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP,  OR  THE   STORY  OF  AL- 
CANDER  AND  SEPTIMIUS. 

Taken  from  a  Byzantine  Historian. 

ATHENS,  even  long  after  the  decline  of  the  Roman 
empire,  still  continued  the  seat  of  learning,  politeness, 
and  wisdom.  Theodoric,  the  Ostrogoth,  repaired  the 
schools  which  barbarity  was  suffering  to  fall  into  de- 
cay, and  continued  those  pensions  to  men  of  learning, 
which  avaricious  governors  had  monopolized. 

In  this  city,  and  about  this  period,  Alcander  and 
Septimius  were  fellow-students  together ;  the  one,  the 
most  subtle  reasoner  of  all  the  Lyceum  ;  the  other,  the 
most  eloquent  speaker  in  the  Academic  grove.  Mutual 
admiration  soon  begot  a  friendship.  Their  fortunes 
were  nearly  equal,  and  they  were  natives  of  the  two 
most  celebrated  cities  in  the  world ;  for  Alcander  was 
of  Athens,  Septimius  came  from  Rome. 

In  this  state  of  harmony  they  lived  for  some  time  to- 
gether, when  Alcander,  after  passing  the  first  part  of  his 
youth  in  the  indolence  of  philosophy,  thought  at  length 
of  entering  into  the  busy  world  ;  and  as  a  step  previous 
to  this,  placed  his  affections  on  Hypatia,  a  lady  of  exqui- 
site beauty.  The  day  of  their  intended  nuptials  was 
fixed ;  the  previous  ceremonies  were  performed ;  and 
nothing  now  remained  but  her  being  conducted  in  tri- 
umph to  the  apartment  of  the  intended  bridegroom. 

Alcander's  exultation  in  his  own  happiness,  or  being 
unable  to  enjoy  any  satisfaction  without  making  his 
friend  Septimius  a  partner,  prevailed  upon  him  to  intro- 


372  ESSAYS. 

duce  Hypatia  to  his  fellow-student ;  which  he  did,  with 
all  the  gaiety  of  a  man  who  found  himself  equally  hap- 
py in  friendship  and  love.  But  this  was  an  interview 
fatal  to  the  future  peace  of  both ;  for  Septimius  no 
sooner  saw  her  but  he  was  smitten  with  an  involuntary 
passion ;  and  though  he  used  every  effort  to  suppress 
desires  at  once  so  imprudent  and  unjust,  the  emotions 
of  his  mind  in  a  short  time  became  so  strong,  that  they 
brought  on  a  fever,  which  the  physicians  judged  incur- 
able. 

During  this  illness  Alcander  watched  him  with  all  the 
anxiety  of  fondness,  and  brought  his  mistress  to  join  in 
those  amiable  offices  of  friendship.  The  sagacity  of  the 
physicians,  by  these  means,  soon  discovered  that  the 
cause  of  their  patient's  disorder  was  love  ;  and  Alcan- 
der, being  apprized  of  their  discovery,  at  length  ex- 
torted a  confession  from  the  reluctant  dying  lover. 

It  would  but  delay  the  narrative  to  describe  the  con- 
flict between  love  and  friendship  in  the  breast  of  Al- 
eander  on  this  occasion  ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  the 
Athenians  were  at  that  time  arrived  at  such  refinement 
in  morals,  that  every  virtue  was  carried  to  excess :  in 
short,  forgetful  of  his  own  felicity,  he  gave  up  his  in- 
tended bride,  in  all  her  charms,  to  the  young  Roman. 
They  were  married  privately  by  his  connivance,  and 
this  unlooked-for  change  of  fortune  wrought  as  unex- 
pected a  change  in  the  constitution  of  the  now  happy 
Septimius.  In  a  few  days  he  was  perfectly  recovered, 
and  set  out  with  his  fair  partner  for  Rome.  Here,  by 
an  exertion  of  those  talents  which  he  was  so  eminent- 
ly possessed  of,  Septimius,  in  a  few  years,  arrived  at 


ESSAYS.  373 

the  highest  dignities  of  the  state,  and  was  constituted 
the  city  judge,  or  praetor. 

In  the  mean  time  Alcander  not  only  felt  the  pain  of 
being  separated  from  his  friend  and  his  mistress,  but  a 
prosecution  was  commenced  against  him  by  the  relations 
of  Hypatia,  for  having  basely  given  up  his  bride,  as  was 
suggested,  for  money.  His  innocence  of  the  crime  laid 
to  his  charge,  arid  even  his  eloquence  in  his  own  de- 
fence, were  not  able  to  withstand  the  influence  of  a 
powerful  party.  He  was  cast,  and  condemned  to  pay 
an  enormous  fine.  However,  being  unable  to  raise  so 
large  a  sum  at  the  time  appointed,  his  possessions 
were  confiscated,  he  himself  was  stripped  of  the  habit 
of  freedom,  exposed  as  a  slave  in  the  market-place, 
and  sold  to  the  highest  bidder. 

A  merchant  of  Thrace  becoming  his  purchaser,  Al- 
cander,  with  some  other  companions  of  distress,  was  car- 
ried into  that  region  of  desolation  and  sterility.  His 
stated  employment  was  to  follow  the  herds  of  an  imperi- 
ous master,  and  his  success  in  hunting  was  all  that  was 
allowed  him  to  supply  his  precarious  subsistence.  Every 
morning  awaked  him  to  a  renewal  of  famine  or  toil,  and 
every  change  of  season  served  but  to  aggravate  his  un- 
sheltered distress.  After  some  years  of  bondage,  how- 
ever, an  opportunity  of  escaping  offered  ;  he  embraced 
it  with  ardor ;  so  that  travelling  by  night,  and  lodging 
in  caverns  by  day,  to  shorten  a  long  story,  he  at  last 
arrived  in  Rome.  The  same  day  on  which  Alcander 
arrived,  Septimius  sat  administering  justice  in  the  for- 
um, whither  our  wanderer  came,  expecting  to  be  instant- 
ly known,  and  publicly  acknowledged  by  his  former 
32 


374  ESSAYS. 

friend.  Here  he  stood  the  whole  day  amongst  the 
crowd,  watching  the  eyes  of  the  judge,  and  expecting 
to  be  taken  notice  of,  but  he  was  so  much  altered  by 
a  long  succession  of  hardships,  that  he  continued  unno- 
ticed amongst  the  rest ;  and  in  the  evening,  when  he 
was  going  up  to  the  praetor's  chair,  he  was  brutally  re- 
pulsed by  the  attending  lictors.  The  attention  of  the 
poor  is  driven  from  one  ungrateful  object  to  another; 
for  night  coming  on,  he  now  found  himself  under  the 
necessity  of  seeking  a  place  to  lie  in,  and  yet  knew  not 
where  to  apply.  All  emaciated,  and  in  rags,  as  he  was, 
none  of  the  citizens  would  harbor  so  much  wretched- 
ness ;  and  sleeping  in  the  streets  might  be  attended 
with  interruption  or  danger ;  in  short,  he  was  obliged 
to  take  up  his  lodgings  in  one  of  the  tombs  without 
the  city,  the  usual  retreat  of  guilt,  poverty,  and  des- 
pair. In  this  mansion  of  horror,  laying  his  head  upon 
an  inverted  urn,  he  forgot  his  miseries  for  a  while  in 
sleep,  and  found  on  his  flinty  couch  more  ^ase  than 
beds  of  down  can  supply  to  the  guilty. 

As  he  continued  here,  about  midnight  two  robbers 
came  to  make  this  their  retreat,  but  happening  to  dis- 
agree about  the  division  of  their  plunder,  one  of  them 
stabbed  the  other  to  the  heart,  and  left  him  weltering  in 
blood  at  the  entrance.  In  these  circumstances  he  was 
found  next  morning  dead  at  the  mouth  of  the  vault. 
This  naturally  inducing  a  farther  inquiry,  an  alarm  was 
spread ;  the  cave  was  examined ;  and  Alcander  being 
found,  was  immediately  apprehended,  and  accused  of 
robbery  and  murder.  The  circumstances  against  him 
were  strong,  and  the  wretchedness  of  his  appearance 
confirmed  suspicion.  Misfortune  and  he  were  now  so 


ESSAYS.  375 

long  acquainted,  that  he  at  last  became  regardless  of  life. 
He  detested  a  world  where  he  had  found  only  ingrati- 
tude, falsehood,  and  cruelty  ;  he  was  determined  to  make 
no  defence  ;  and  thus,  lowering  with  resolution,  he  was 
dragged  bound  with  cords  before  the  tribunal  of  Sep- 
timius.  As  the  proofs  were  positive  against  him,  and  he 
offered  nothing  in  his  own  vindication,  the  judge  was 
proceeding  to  doom  him  to  a  most  cruel  and  ignomini- 
ous death,  when  the  attention  of  the  multitude  was 
soon  diverted  by  another  object.  The  robber,  who  had 
been  really  guilty,  was  apprehended  selling  his  plun- 
der, and  struck  with  a  panic,  had  confessed  his  crime. 
He  was  brought  bound  to  the  same  tribunal,  and  ac- 
quitted every  other  person  of  any  partnership  in  his 
guilt.  Alcander's  innocence  therefore  appeared ;  but 
the  sullen  rashness  of  his  conduct  remained  a  wonder 
to  the  surrounding  multitude ;  but  their  astonishment 
was  still  farther  increased  when  they  saw  their  judge 
start  from  his  tribunal  to  embrace  the  supposed  crim- 
inal. Septimius  recollected  his  friend  and  former  bene- 
factor, and  hung  upon  his  neck  with  tears  of  pity  and 
joy.  Need  the  sequel  be  related  ?  — Alcander  was  ac- 
quitted, shared  the  friendship  and  honors  of  the  prin- 
cipal citizens  of  Rome,  lived  afterwards  in  happiness 
and  ease,  and  left  it  to  be  engraved  on  his  tomb,  that 
no  circumstances  are  so  desperate  which  Providence 
may  not  relieve. 

ON   HAPPINESS  OF   TEMPER. 

WHEN  I  reflect  on  the  unambitious  retirement  in 
which  I  passed  the  early  part  of  my  life  in  the  country. 


376  ESSAYS. 

I  cannot  avoid  feeling  some  pain  in  thinking  that  those 
happy  days  are  never  to  return.  In  that  retreat  all 
nature  seemed  capable  of  affording  pleasure ;  I  then 
made  no  refinements  on  happiness,  but  could  be  pleased 
with  the  most  awkard  efforts  of  rustic  mirth,  thought 
«ross-purposes  the  highest  stretch  of  human  wit,  and 
questions  and  commands  the  most  rational  way  of 
spending  the  evening.  Happy  could  so  charming  an 
illusion  continue !  I  find  that  age  and  knowledge  only 
contribute  to  sour  our  dispositions.  My  present  enjoy- 
ments may  be  more  refined,  but  they  are  infinitely  less 
pleasing.  The  pleasure  the  best  actor  gives,  can  no 
way  compare  to  that  I  have  received  from  a  country 
wag  who  imitated  a  quaker's  sermon.  The  music  of 
the  finest  singer  is  dissonance  to  what  I  felt  when  our 
old  dairy-maid  sung  me  into  tears  with  Johnny  Arm- 
strong's Last  Good  Night,  or  the  Cruelty  of  Barbara 
Allen. 

Writers  of  every  age  have  endeavored  to  show  that 
pleasure  is  in  us,  and  not  in  the  objects  offered  for  our 
amusement.  If  the  soul  be  happily  disposed,  everything 
becomes  capable  of  affording  entertainment,  and  distress 
will  almost  want  a  name.  Every  occurrence  passes  in 
review  like  the  figures  of  a  procession :  some  may  be 
awkward,  others  ill-dressed ;  but  none  but  a  fool  is  for 
this  enraged  with  the  master  of  the  ceremonies. 

1  remember  to  have  once  seen  a  slave  in  a  fortification 
in  Flanders,  who  appeared  no  way  touched  with  his 
situation.  He  was  maimed,  deformed,  and  chained : 
obliged  to  toil  from  the  appearance  of  day  till  night- 
fall ;  and  condemned  to  this  for  life  :  yet,  with  all  these 
circumstances  of  apparent  wretchedness,  he  sung,  would 


ESSAYS.  377 

have  danced  bat  that  he  wanted  a  leg,  and  appeared  the 
merriest,  happiest  man  of  all  the  garrison.  What  a  prac- 
tical philosopher  was  here !  a  happy  constitution  sup- 
plied philosophy ;  and  though  seemingly  destitute  of 
wisdom,  he  was  really  wise.  No  reading  or  study  had 
contributed  to  disenchant  the  fairy-land  about  him. 
Everything  furnished  him  with  an  opportunity  of  mirth ; 
and,  though  some  thought  him,  from  his  insensibility,  a 
fool,  he  was  such  an  idiot  as  philosophers  should  wish  to 
imitate  ;  for  all  philosophy  is  only  forcing  the  trade  of 
happiness,  when  nature  seems  to  deny  the  means. 

They  who,  like  our  slave,  can  place  themselves  on 
that  side  of  the  world  in  which  everything  appears  in  a 
pleasing  light,  will  find  something  in  every  occurrence  to 
excite  their  good-humor.  The  most  calamitous  events, 
either  to  themselves  "or  others,  can  bring  no  new  afflic- 
tion ;  the  whole  world  is  to  them  a  theatre,  on  which 
comedies  only  are  acted.  All  the  bustle  of  heroism,  or 
the  rants  of  ambition,  serve  only  to  heighten  the  ab- 
surdity of  the  scene,  and  make  the  humor  more  poign- 
ant. They  feel,  in  short,  as  little  anguish  at  their  own 
distress,  or  the  complaints  of  others,  as  the  undertaker, 
though  dressed  in  black,  feels  sorrow  at  a  funeral. 

Of  all  the  men  I  ever  read  of,  the  famous  cardinal  de 
Retz  possessed  this  happiness  of  temper  in  the  highest 
degree.  As  he  was  a  man  of  gallantry,  and  despised  all 
that  wore  the  pedantic  appearance  of  philosophy,  where- 
ever  pleasure  was  to  be  sold,  he  was  generally  foremost 
to  raise  the  auction.  Being  a  universal  admirer  of  the 
fair  sex,  when  he  found  one  lady  cruel,  he  generally 
fell  in  love  with  another,  from  whom  he  expected  * 
32* 


378  ESSATS. 

more  favorable  reception.  If  she  too  rejected  his  ad 
dresses  he  never  thought  of  retiring  into  deserts,  or 
pining  in  hopeless  distress :  he  persuaded  himself,  that 
instead  of  loving  the  lady,  he  only  fancied  that  he  had 
loved  her  and  so  all  was  well  again.  When  fortune 
wore  her  angriest  look,  and  he  at  last  fell  into  the  pow- 
er of  his  most  deadly  enemy,  Cardinal  Mazarine  (being, 
confined  a  close  prisoner  in  the  castle  of  Valenciennes), 
he  never  attempted  to  support  his  distress  by  wisdom 
or  philosophy,  for  he  pretended  to  neither.  He  only 
laughed  at  himself  and  his  persecutor,  and  seemed  in- 
finitely pleased  at  his  new  situation.  In  this  mansion 
of  distress,  though  secluded  from  his  friends,  though 
denied  all  the  amusements,  and  even  the  conveniences 
of  life,  he  still  retained  his  good-humor,  laughed  at  all 
the  little  spite  of  his  enemies,  and  carried  the  jest  so 
far  as  to  be  revenged  by  writing  the  life  of  his  jailer. 

All  that  the  wisdom  of  the  proud  can  teach  is  to  be 
stubborn  or  sullen  under  misfortunes.  The  cardinal's 
example  will  instruct  us  to  be  merry  in  circumstances 
of  the  highest  affliction.  It  matters  not  whether  our 
good-humor  be  construed  by  others  into  insensibility, 
or  even  idiotism  ;  it  is  happiness  to  ourselves,  and  none 
but  a  fool  would  measure  his  satisfaction  by  what  the 
world  thinks  01  it ;  for  my  own  part,  I  never  pass  by 
one  of  our  prisons  for  debt,  that  I  do  not  envy  that 
felicity  which  is  still  going  forward  among  those  peo- 
ple, who  forget  the  cares  of  the  world  by  being  shut 
out  from  its  silly  ambition. 

The  happiest  silly  fellow  I  ever  knew,  was  of  the 
number  of  those  good-natured  creatures  that  are  said  to 
do  no  harm  to  any  but  themselves.  Whenever  he  fell 


ESSAYS.  379 

into  misery,  he  usually  called  it  seeing  life.  If  his  head 
was  broke  by  a  chairman,  or  his  pocket  picked  by  a 
sharper,  he  comforted  himself  by  imitating  the  Hiber- 
nian dialect  of  the  one,  or  the  more  fashionable  cant  of 
the  other.  Nothing  came  amiss  to  him.  His  inattention 
to  money-matters  had  incensed  his  father  to  such  a  de- 
gree, that  all  the  intercession  of  friends  in  his  favor  was 
fruitless.  The  old  gentleman  was  on  his  death-bed. 
The  whole  family,  and  Dick  among  the  number,  gath- 
ered around  him.  "  I  leave  my  second  son,  Anr'rew," 
said  the  expiring  miser,  "  my  whole  estate,  and  desire 
him  to  be  frugal."  Andrew,  in  a  sorrowful  tone,  as  is 
usual  on  these  occasions,  prayed  Heaven  to  prolong  his 
life  and  health  to  enjoy  it  himself.  "  I  recommend  Si- 
mon, my  third  son,  to  the  care  of  his  elder  brother,  and 
leave  him  beside  four  thousand  pounds." — "Ah !  father," 
cried  Simon,  in  great  affliction  to  be  sure,  "  may  Heaven 
give  you  life  and  health  to  enjoy  it  yourself ! "  At  last, 
turning  to  poor  Dick,  "As  for  you,  you  have  always 
been  a  sad  dog;  you'll  never  come  to  good;  you'll 
never  be  rich ;  I'll  leave  you  a  shilling  to  buy  a  hal- 
ter."— "Ah  !  father,"  cries  Dick,  without  any  emotion, 
"may  Heaven  give  you  life  and  health  to  enjoy  it 
yourself !  "  This  was  all  the  trouble  the  loss  of  for- 
tune gave  this  thoughtless,  imprudent  creature.  How- 
ever, the  tenderness  of  an  uncle  recompensed  the  ne- 
glect of  a  father ;  and  my  friend  is  now  not  only  ex- 
cessively good-humored,  but  competently  rich. 

Yes,  let  the  world  cry  out  at  a  bankrupt  who  appears 
at  a  ball,  at  an  author  who  laughs  at  the  public  which 
pronounces  him  a  dunce,  at  a  general  who  smiles  at  the 
approach  of  the  vulgar,  or  the  lady  who  keeps  her 


380  ESSAYS. 

good  humor  in  spite  of  scandal ;  but  such  is  the  wisest 
behavior  that  any  of  us  can  possibly  assume.  It  is 
certainly  a  better  way  to  oppose  calamity  by  dissipa- 
tion, than  to  take  up  the  arms  of  reason  or  resolution 
to  oppose  it ;  by  the  first  method,  we  forget  our  miser- 
ies ;  by  the  last,  we  only  conceal  them  from  others : 
by  struggling  with  misfortunes,  we  are  sure  to  receive 
some  wounds  in  the  conflict;  but  a  sure  method  to 
come  off  victorious,  is  by  running  away. 


DESCRIPTION   OF   VARIOUS   CLUBS. 

I  REMEMBER  to  have  read  in  some  philosopher  (I  be- 
lieve in  Tom  Brown's  works),  that,  let  a  man's  char- 
acter, sentiments,  or  complexion,  be  what  they  will,  he 
can  find  company  in  London  to  match  them.  If 
he  be  splenetic,  he  may  every  day  meet  companions 
on  the  seats  in  St.  James's  Park,  with  whose  groans 
he  may  mix.  his  own,  and  pathetically  talk  of  the 
weather.  If  he  be  passionate,  he  may  vent  his  rage 
among  the  old  orators  at  Slaughter's  coffee-house,  and 
damn  the  nation  because  it  keeps  him  from  starving. 
If  he  be  phlegmatic,  he  may  sit  in  silence  at  the  Hum- 
drum club  in  Ivy-lane ;  and,  if  actually  mad,  he  may 
find  very  good  company  in  Moorfields,  either  at  Bed- 
lam or  the  Foundry,  ready  to  cultivate  a  nearer  ac- 
quaintance. 

But,  although  such  as  have  a  knowledge  of  the  town 
may  easily  class  themselves  with  tempers  congenial  to 
their  own,  a  countryman  who  conies  to 'live  in  London 
finds  nothing  more  drnqult.  With  regard  to  myself, 


ESSAYS.  381 

none  ever  tried  with  more  assiduity,  or  came  off  with 
such  indifferent  success.  I  spent  a  whole  season  in 
the  search,  during  which  time  my  name  has  been  en- 
rolled in  societies,  lodges,  convocations,  and  meetings, 
without  number.  To  some  I  was  introduced  by  a 
friend,  to  others  invited  by  an  advertisement ;  to  these 
1  introduced  myself,  and  to  those  I  changed  my  name 
to  gain  admittance.  In  short,  no  coquette  was  ever 
more  solicitous  to  match  her  ribands  to  her  complex- 
ion, than  I  to  suit  my  club  to  my  temper  ;  for  I  was 
too  obstinate  to  bring  my  temper  to  conform  to  it. 

The  first  club  I  entered,  upon  coming  to  town,  was 
that  of  the  Choice  Spirits.  The  name  was  entirely 
suited  to  my  taste ;  I  was  a  lover  of  mirth,  good- 
humor,  and  even  sometimes  of  fun,  from  my  childhood. 

As  no  other  passport  was  requisite  but  the  payment 
of  two  shillings  at  the  door,  I  introduced  myself  with- 
out farther  ceremony  to  the  members,  who  were  already 
assembled,  and  had,  for  some  time,  begun  upon  busi- 
ness. The  grand,  with  a  mallet  in  his  hand,  presided 
at  the  head  of  the  table.  I  could  not  avoid,  upon  my 
entrance,  making  use  of  all  my  skill  in  physiognomy, 
in  order  to  discover  that  superiority  of  genius  in  men 
who  had  taken  a  title  so  superior  to  the  rest  of  man- 
kind. I  expected  to  see  the  lines  of  every  face  mark- 
ed with  strong  thinking ;  but,  though  I  had  some  skill 
in  this  science,  I  could  for  my  life  discover  nothing  but 
a  pert  simper,  fat  or  profound  stupidity. 

My  speculations  were  soon  interrupted  by  the  grand 
who  had  knocked  down  Mr.  Spriggins  for  a  song.  I 
was  upon  this,  whispered  by  one  of  the  company  who 
sat  next  me,  that  I  should  now  see  something  touched 


382  ESSAYS. 

off  to  a  nicety,  for  Mr.  Spriggins  was  going  to  give  us 
Mad  Tom  in  all  its  glory.  Mr.  Spriggins  endeavored 
to  excuse  himself ;  for,  as  he  was  to  act  a  madman  and 
a  king,  it  was  impossible  to  go  through  the  part  prop- 
erly without  a  crown  and  chains.  His  excuses  were 
overruled  by  a  great  majority,  and  with  much  vocif- 
eration. The  president  ordered  up  the  jack-chain  ;  and, 
instead  of  a  crown,  our  performer  covered  his  brows 
with  an  inverted  Jordan.  After  he  had  rattled  his 
chain,  and  shook  his  head,  to  the  great  delight  of  the 
whole  company,  he  began  his  song.  As  I  have  heard 
few  young  fellows  offer  to  sing  in  company  that  did 
not  expose  themselves,  it  was  no  great  disappointment 
to  me  to  find  Mr.  Spriggins  among  the  number ;  how- 
ever, not  to  seem  an  odd  fish,  I  rose  from  my  seat  in 
rapture,  cried  out,  "  Bravo  !  encore  !  "  and  slapped  the 
table  as  loud  us  any  of  the  rest. 

The  gentleman  who  sat  next  me  seemed  highly 
pleased  with  my  taste,  and  the  ardor  of  my  approba- 
tion ;  and  whispering  told  me  I  had  suffered  an  im- 
mense loss ;  for,  had  I  come  a  few  minutes  sooner,  I 
might  have  heard  Geeho  Dobbin  sung  in  a  tiptop  man- 
ner, by  the  pimpled-nose  spirit  at  the  president's  right 
elbow ;  but  he  was  evaporated  before  I  came. 

As  I  was  expressing  my  uneasiness  at  this  disappoint- 
ment, I  found  the  attention  of  the  company  employed 
upon  a  fat  figure,  who,  with  a  voice  more  rough  than  the 
Staffordshire  giant's,  was  giving  us  the  "  Softly  sweet,  in 
Lydian  measure,"  of  Alexander's  Feast.  After  a  short 
pause  of  admiration,  to  this  succeeded  a  Welsh  dialogue, 
with  the  humors  of  Teaguc  uml  Taffy  ;  after  that  came 
an  Old  Jackson,  with  a  story  between  every  stanza: 


ESSAYS.  383 

next  was  sung  the  Dust-Cart,  and  then  Solomon's 
Song.  The  glass  began  now  to  circulate  pretty  freely ; 
those  who  were  silent  when  sober,  would  now  be  heard 
in  their  turn,  every  man  had  his  song,  and  he  saw  no 
reason  why  he  should  not  be  heard  as  well  as  any  of 
the  rest :  one  begged  to  be  heard  while  he  gave  Death 
and  the  Lady  in  high  taste ;  another  sung  to  a  plate 
which  he  kept  trundling  on  the  edges  ;  nothing  was 
now  heard  but  singing,  voice  rose  above  voice,  and  the 
whole  became  one  universal  shout,  when  the  landlord 
came  to  acquaint  the  company  that  the  reckoning  was 
drunk  out.  Rabelais  calls  the  moments  in  which  a 
reckoning  is  mentioned,  the  most  melancholy  of  our 
lives :  never  was  so  much  noise  so  quickly  quelled,  as 
by  this  short  but  pathetic  oration  of  our  landlord. 
u  Drunk  out !  "  was  echoed  in  a  tone  of  discontent 
round  the  table  :  "  drunk  out  already  !  that  was  very 
odd !  that  so  much  punch  could  be  drunk  out  already  ! 
impossible !  "  The  landlord,  however,  seeming  re- 
solved not  to  retreat  from  his  first  assurances,  the  com- 
pany was  dissolved,  and  a  president  chosen  for  the 
night  ensuing. 

A  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  was  complaining  some- 
time after  of  the  entertainment  I  have  been  describing, 
proposed  to  bring  me  to  the  club  that  he  frequented ; 
which  he  fancied,  would  suit  the  gravity  of  my  temper 
exactly.  "We  have  at  the  Muzzy  club,"  says  he,  "no 
riotous  mirth  nor  awkward  ribaldry ;  no  confusion  or 
bawling ;  all  is  conducted  with  wisdom  and  decency  :  be- 
sides, some  of  our  members  are  worth  forty  thousand 
pounds ;  men  of  prudence  and  foresight  every  one  of 
them  :  these  are  the  proper  acquaintance,  and  to  such  I 


384  ESSAYS. 

will  to-night  introduce  you."  I  was  charmed  at  the 
proposal ;  to  be  acquainted  with  men  worth  forty 
thousand  pounds,  and  to  talk  wisdom  the  whole  night, 
were  offers  that  threw  me  into  rapture. 

At  seven  o'clock,  I  was  accordingly  introduced  by 
my  friend ;  not  indeed  to  the  company,  for,  though  I 
made  my  best  bow,  they  seemed  insensible  of  my  ap- 
proach ;  but  to  the  table  at  which  they  were  sitting. 
Upon  my  entering  the  room,  I  could  not  avoid  feeling 
a  secret  veneration  from  the  solemnity  of  the  scene 
before  me  ;  the  members  kept  a  profound  silence,  each 
with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a  pewter  pot  in  his  hand, 
and  with  faces  that  might  easily  be  construed  into  ab- 
solute wisdom.  Happy  society !  thought  I  to  myself, 
where  the  members  think  before  they  speak,  deliver 
nothing  rashly,  but  convey  their  thoughts  to  each  other 
pregnant  with  meaning,  and  matured  by  reflection. 

In  this  pleasing  speculation  I  continued  a  full  half 
hour,  expecting  each  moment  that  somebody  would  be- 
gin to  open  his  mouth ;  every  time  the  pipe  was  laid 
down,  I  expected  it  was  to  speak ;  but  it  was  only  to 
spit.  At  length,  resolving  to  break  the  charm  myself, 
and  overcome  their  extreme  diffidence,  for  to  this  I 
imputed  their  silence,  I  rubbed  my  hands,  and  looking 
as  wise  as  possible,  observed  that  the  nights  began  to 
grow  a  little  coolish  at  this  time  of  the  year.  This,  as 
it  was  directed  to  none  of  the  company  in  particular, 
none  thought  himself  obliged  to  answer ;  wherefore  I 
continued  still  to  rub  my  hands  and  look  wise.  My 
next  effort  was  addressed  to  a  gentleman  who  sat  next 
oie ;  to  whom  I  observed,  that  the  beer  was  extremely 


ESSAYS.  385 

good ;  my  neighbor  made  no  reply,  but  by  a  large  puff 
of  tobacco  smoke. 

I  now  began  to  be  uneasy  in  this  dumb  society,  till 
one  of  them  a  little  relieved  me  by  observing,  that 
bread  had  not  risen  these  three  weeks.  "Ah  !  "  says 
another,  still  keeping  the  pipe  in  his  mouth,  "  that 
puts  me  in  mind  of  a  pleasant  story  about  that — hem 
— very  well ;  you  must  know — but,  before  I  begin  — 
sir,  my  service  to  you — where  was  I?" 

My  next  club  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Harmonical 
Society ;  probably  from  that  love  of  order  and  friend- 
ship which  every  person  commends  in  institutions  of 
this  nature.  The  landlord  was  himself  founder.  The 
money  spent  is  fourpence  each ;  and  they  sometimes 
whip  for  a  double  reckoning.  To  this  club  few  re- 
commendations are  requisite  except  the  introductory 
fourpence,  and  my  landlord's  good  word,  which,  as  he 
gains  by  it,  he  never  refuses. 

We  all  here  talked  and  behaved  as  every  body  else 
usually  does  on  his  club-night ;  we  discussed  the  topic 
of  the  day,  drank  each  other's  healths,  snuffed  the  can- 
dles with  our  fingers,  and  filled  our  pipes  from  the  same 
plate  of  tobacco.  The  company  saluted  each  other  in 
the  common  manner.  Mr.  Bellows-mender  hoped  Mr. 
Curry-comb-maker  had  not  caught  cold  going  home  the 
last  club-night ;  and  he  returned  the  complement  by 
hoping  that  young  Master  Bellows-mender  had  got 
well  again  of  the  chin-cough.  Doctor  Twist  told  us  a 
story  of  a  parliament  man  with  whom  he  was  intimately 
acquainted ;  while  the  bug-man,  at  the  same  time,  was 
telling  a  better  story  of  a  noble  lord  with  whom  he 
33 


386  ESSAYS. 

could  do  anything.  A  gentleman  in  a  black  wi^  and 
leather  breeches,  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  was  en- 
gaged in  a  long  narrative  of  the  ghost  in  Cock-lane  : 
he  had  read  it  in  the  papers  of  the  day,  and  was  telling 
it  to  some  that  sat  next  him,  who  could  not  read.  Near 
him  Mr.  Dibbins  was  disputing  on  the  old  subject  of 
religion  with  a  Jew  pedlar,  over  the  table,  while  the 
president  vainly  knocked  down  Mr.  Leathersides  for 
a  song.  Besides  the  combination  of  these  voices, 
which  I  could  hear  all  together,  and  which  formed  an 
upper  part  to  the  concert,  there  were  several  others 
playing  under  parts  by  themselves,  and  endeavoring  to 
fasten  on  some  luckless  neighbor's  ear,  who  was  him- 
self bent  upon  the  same  design  against  some  other. 

We  have  often  heard  of  the  speech  of  a  corporation, 
and  this  induced  me  to  transcribe  a  speech  of  this  club, 
taken  in  short  hand,  word  for  word,  as  it  was  spoken 
by  every  member  of  the  company.  It  may  be  neces- 
sary to  observe,  that  the  man  who  told  of  the  ghost 
had  the  loudest  voice  and  the  longest  story  to  tell,  so 
that  his  continuing  narrative  filled  every  chasm' in  the 
conversation. 

"  So,  sir,  d'ye  perceive  me,  the  ghost  giving  three 
loud  raps  at  the  bed-post " — "  Says  my  lord  to  me,  My 
dear  Smokeum,  you  know  there  is  no  man  upon  the 
face  of  the  yearth  for  whom  I  have  so  high" — "A  dam- 
nable false  heretical  opinion  of  all  sound  doctrine  and 
good  learning ;  for  I'll  tell  it  aloud,  and  spare  not,  that " 
— "  Silence  for  a  song;  Mr.  Leathersides  for  a  song" 
—As  I  was  walking  upon  the  highway,  I  met  a  young 
damsel  " — "  Then  what  brings  you  here  ?  says  the  par- 
son to  the  ghost " — "  Sanconiathon,  Manetho,  a»d 


ESSAYS.  387 

Berosus  " — "  The  whole  way  from  Islington  turnpike 
to  Dog-house  bar  " — "  Dam  " — "As  for  Abel  Drug- 
ger,  sir,  he's  damn'd  low  in  it ;  my  prentice  boy  has 
more  of  the  gentleman  than  he  " — "  For  murder  will 
out  one  time  or  another ;  and  none  but  a  ghost,  you 
know,  gentlemen,  can  " — "  Damn  if  I  do  n't ;  for  my 
friend,  whom  you  know,  gentlemen,  and  who  is  a  par- 
liament man,  a  man  of  consequence,  a  dear  honest  creat- 
ure, to  be  sure  ;  we  were  laughing  last  night  at " — 
"  Death  and  damnation  upon  all  his  posterity  by  simply 
barely  tasting  " — "  Sour  grapes,  as  the  fox  said  once 
when  he  could  not  reach  them  ;  and  I'll,  I'll  tell  you  a 
story  about  that,  that  will  make  you  burst  your  sides 
with  laughing.  A  fox  once" — "Will  nobody  listen  to 
the  song?  " — "As  I  was  a  walking  upon  the  highway, 
I  met  a  young  damsel  both  buxom  and  gay" — "No 
ghost,  gentlemen,  can  be  murdered ;  nor  did  I  ever  hear 
but  of  one  ghost  killed  in  all  my  life,  and  that  was 
stabbed  in  the  belly  with  a  " — "  My  blood  and  soul  if 
^1  don't" — "Mr.  Bellows-mender;  I  have  the  honor 
of  drinking  your  very  good  health  " — "  Blast  me  if  I 
do  "  —  "  Dam  "  —  "  Blood  "  —  "  Bugs  "  —  "  Fire  "  - 
«  Whiz  "— "  Blid  "— "  Tit "— "  Rat "— "  Trip  "—The 
rest  all  riot,  nonsense,  and  rapid  confusion. 

Were  I  to  be  angry  at  men  for  being  fools,  I  could 
here  find  ample  room  for  declamation  ;  but  alas !  I 
have  been  a  fool  myself ;  and  why  should  I  be  angry 
with  them  for  being  something  so  natural  to  every 
child  of  humanity  ? 

Fatigued  with  this  society,  I  was  introduced,  the  fol- 
lowing night,  to  a  club  of  fashion.  On  taking  my 


388  ESSAYS. 

place,  I  found  the  conversation  sufficiently  easy,  and 
tolerably  good-natured  ;  for  my  lord  and  Sir  Paul  were 
not  yet  arrived.  I  now  thought  myself  completely 
fitted,  and  resolving  to  seek  no  farther,  determined  to 
take  up  my  residence  here  for  the  winter :  while  my 
temper  began  to  open  insensibly  to  the  cheerfulness  I 
saw  diffused  on  every  face  in  the  room :  but  the  delu 
sion  soon  vanished,  when  the  waiter  came  to  apprize 
us  that  his  lordship  and  Sir  Paul  were  just  arrived. 

From  this  moment  all  our  felicity  was  at  an  end ; 
our  new  guests  bustled  into  the  room,  and  took  their 
seats  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Adieu  now  all  confi- 
dence ;  every  creature  strove  who  should  most  recom- 
mend himself  to  our  members  of  distinction.  Each 
seemed  quite  regardless  of  jili-asin^  any  but  our  new 
grufipts  ;  and  what  before  wore  the  appearance  of  friend- 
ship, was  now  turned  into  rivalry. 

Yet  I  could  not  observe  that,  amidst  all  this  flattery 
and  obsequious  attention,  our  great  men  took  any  no- 
tice of  the  rest  of  the  company.  Their  whole  dis- 
course was  addressed  to  each  other.  Sir  Paul  told  his 
lordship  a  long  story  of  Moravia  the  Jew  ;  and  his 
lordship  gave  Sir  Paul  a  very  long  account  of  his  new 
method  of  managing  silkworms  ;  he  led  him,  and  con- 
sequently the  rest  of  the  company,  through  all  the  sta- 
ges of  feeding,  sunning,  and  hatching  :  with  an  episode 
on  mulberry-trees,  a  digression  upon  gras?  -seeds,  and 
a  long  parenthesis  about  his  new  postilion.  In  this 
manner  we  travelled  on,  wishing  every  story  to  be  the 
last ;  but  all  in  vain  : — 

••  Hills  over  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arose.9* 


ESSAYS.  389 

The  last  club  in  which  I  was  enrolled  a  member, 
«vas  a  society  of  moral  philosophers,  as  they  called 
themselves,  who  assembled  twice  a  week,  in  order  to 
show  the  absurdity  of  the  present  mode  of  religion, 
and  establish  a  new  one  in  its  stead. 

I  fo'und  the  members  very  warmly  disputing  when 
I  arrived;  not  indeed  about  religion  or  ethics,  but 
about  who  had  neglected  to  lay  down  his  preliminary 
sixpence  upon  entering  the  room.  The  president  swore 
that  he  had  laid  his  own  down,  and  so  swore  all  the 
company. 

During  this  contest,  I  ftad  an  opportunity  of  observ- 
ing the  laws,  and  also  the  members  of  the  society. 
The  president,  who  had  been,  as  I  was  told,  lately  a 
bankrupt,  was  a  tall,  pale  figure,  with  a  long  black 
wig;  the  next  to  him  was  dressed  in  a  large  white 
wig,  and  a  black  cravat ;  a  third,  by  the  brownness  of 
his  complexion  seemed  a  native  of  Jamaica ;  and  a 
fourth,  by  his  hue,  appeared  to  be  a  blacksmith.  But 
their  rules  will  give  the  most  just  idea  of  their  learn- 
ing and  principles. 

"  I.  We,  being  a  laudable  society  of  moral  philoso- 
phers, intend  to  dispute  twice  a  week  about  religion 
and  priestcraft ;  leaving  behind  us  old  wives'  tales,  and 
following  good  learning  and  sound  sense ;  and  if  so 
be,  that  any  other  persons  has  a  mind  to  be  of  the  so- 
ciety, they  shall  be  entitled  so  to  do,  upon  paying  the 
sum  of  three  shillings,  to  be  spent  by  the  company  in 
punch. 

"  II.  That  no  member  get  drunk  before  nine  of  the 
clock,  upon  pain  of  forfeiting  three-pence,  to  be  spent 
by  the  company  in  punch.  33* 


390  FS8AYS. 

"  III.  That  as  members  are  sometimes  apt  to  go  away 
without  paying,  every  person  shall  pay  sixpence  upon 
his  entering  the  room  ;  and  all  disputes  shall  be  settled 
by  a  majority ;  and  all  fines  shall  be  paid  in  punch. 

"  IV.  That  sixpence  shall  be  every  night  given  to 
the  president,  in  order  to  buy  books  of  learning  for  the 
good  of  the  society  ;  the  president  has  already  put  him 
self  to  a  good  deal  of  expense  in  buying  books  for  the 
club ;  particularly  the  works  of  Tully,  Socrates, 
Cicero,  which  he  will  soon  read  to  the  Society. 

"  V.  All  them  who  brings  a  new  argument  against 
religion,  and  who,  being  a  philosopher,  and  a  man  of 
learning,  as  the  rest  of  us  is,  shall  be  admitted  to  the 
freedom  of  the  Society,  upon  paying  sixpence  only,  tc 
be  spent  in  punch. 

"  VI.  Whenever  we  are  to  have  an  extraordinary 
meeting,  it  shall  be  advertised  by  some  outlandish 
name  in  the  newspapers. 

"  SAUNDERS  MAC  WILD,  President. 
ANTHONY  BLEWIT,  Vice  President. 

his  f  mark. 
WILLIAM  TURPIN,  Secretary." 


ON  THE    POLICY   OF   CONCEALING   OUR  WANTS, 
OR  POVERTY. 

It  is  usually  said  by  grammarians,  that  the  use  of 
language  is  to  express  our  wants  and  desires ;  but  men 
who  know  the  world,  hold,  and  I  think  with  some 
show  of  reason,  that  he  who  best  knows  how  to  keep 
his  necessities  private,  is  the  most  likely  person  to  have 


ESSAYS*  391 

them  redressed ;  and  that  the  true  use  of  speech  is  not 
so  muoh  to  express  our  wants  as  to  conceal  them. 

When  we  reflect  on  the  manner  in  which  mankind 
generally  confer  their  favors,  there  appears  something 
so  attractive  in  riches,  that  the  large  heap  generally 
collects  from  the  smaller ;  and  the  poor  find  as  much 
pleasure  in  increasing  the  enormous  mass  of  the  rich 
as  the  miser,  who  owns  it,  sees  happiness  in  its  increase. 
Nor  is  there  anything  in  this  repugnant  to  the  laws  of 
humanity.  Seneca  himself  allows,  that,  in  confer- 
ring benefits,  the  present  should  alway?  be  suited  to 
the  dignity  of  the  receiver.  Thus  the  rich  receive 
large  presents,  and  are  thanked  for  accepting  them. 
Men  of  middling  stations  are  obliged  to  be  content 
with  presents  something  less ;  while  the  beggar,  who 
may  be  truly  said  to  want  indeed,  is  well  paid  if  a 
farthing  rewards  his  warmest  solicitations. 

Every  man  who  has  seen  the  world,  and  has  had  his 
ups  and  downs  in  life,  as  the  expression  is,  must  have 
frequently  experienced  the  truth  of  this  doctrine  ;  and 
must  know,  that  to  have  much,  or  to  seem  to  have  it,  is 
the  only  way  to  have  more.  Ovid  finely  compares  a 
man  of  broken  fortune  to  a  falling  column ;  the  lower 
it  sinks,  the  greater  weight  is  it  obliged  to  sustain. 
Thus,  when  a  man's  circumstances  are  such  that  he 
has  no  occasion  to  borrow,  he  finds  numbers  willing  to 
lend  him ;  but  should  his  wants  be  such,  that  he  sues 
for  a  trifle,  it  is  two  to  one  whether  he  may  be  trusted 
with  the  smallest  sum.  A  certain  young  fellow,  whom 
1  knew,  whenever  he  had  occasion  to  ask  his  friend 
for  a  guinea,  used  to  prelude  his  request  as  if  he  want- 
ed two  hundred ;  and  talked  so  familiarly  of  large 


392  ESSAYS. 

sums,  that  none  could  ever  think  he  wanted  a  small 
one.  The  same  gentleman,  whenever  he  wanted 
credit  for  a  suit  of  clothes,  always  made  the  proposal 
in  a  laced  coat ;  for  he  found,  by  experience,  that  if 
he  appeared  shabby  on  these  occasions,  his  tailor  had 
taken  an  oath  against  trusting,  or,  what  was  every 
whit  as  bad,  his  foreman  was  out  of  the  way,  and 
would  not  be  at  home  for  some  time. 

There  can  be  no  inducement .  to  reveal  our  wants, 
except  to  find  pity,  and  by  this  means  relief ;  but  be- 
fore a  poor  man  opens  his  mind  in  such  circumstances, 
he  should  first  consider  whether  he  is  contented  to  lose 
the  esteem  of  the  person  he  solicits,  and  whether  he  is 
willing  to  give  up  friendship  to  excite  compassion. 
Pity  and  friendship  are  passions  incompatible  with 
each  other ;  and  it  is  impossible  that  both  can  reside 
in  any  breast,  for  the  smallest  space,  without  impair- 
ing each  other.  Friendship  is  made  up  of  esteem  and 
pleasure ;  pity  is  composed  of  sorrow  and  contempt : 
the  mind  may,  for  some  time,  fluctuate  between  them, 
but  it  can  never  entertain  both  at  once. 

In  fact,  pity,  though  it  may  often  relieve,  is  but,  at 
best,  a  short-lived  passion,  and  seldom  affords  distress 
more  than  transitory  assistance ;  with  some  it  scarce 
lasts  from  the  first  impulse  till  the  hand  can  be  put 
into  the  pocket ;  with  others  it  may  continue  for  twice 
that  space ;  and  on  some  of  extraordinary  sensibility, 
I  have  seen  it  operate  for  half  an  hour  together ;  but 
still,  last  as  it  may,  it  generally  produces  but  beggarly 
effects,  and  where,  from  this  motive,  we  give  five  farth- 
ings, from  others  we  give  pounds  :  whatever  be  our  feel- 
ings from  the  first  impulse  of  distress,  when  the  same 


ESSAYS.  393 

distress  solicits  a  second  time  we  then  feel  with  dimin- 
ished sensibility ;  and,  like  the  repetition  of  an  echo, 
every  stroke  becomes  weaker ;  till,  at  last,  our  sensa- 
tions lose  all  mixture  of  sorrow,  and  degenerate  into 
downright  contempt. 

These  speculations  bring  to  my  mind  the  fate  of  a 
very  good-natured  fellow  who  is  now  no  more.  He  was 
bred  in  a  counting-house,  and  his  father  dying  just  as 
he  was  out  of  his  time,  left  him  a  handsome  fortune, 
and  many  friends  to  advise  with.  The  restraint  in 
which  my  friend  had  been  brought  up,  had  thrown  a 
gloom  upon  his  temper,  which  some  regarded  as  prud- 
ence ;  and,  from  such  considerations,  he  had  every  day 
repeated  offers  of  friendship.  Such  as  had  money, 
were  ready  to  offer  him  their  assistance  that  way  ;  and 
they  who  had  daughters,  frequently,  in  the  warmth  of 
affection,  advised  him  to  marry.  My  friend,  however, 
was  in  good  circumstances ;  he  wanted  neither  their 
money,  friends,  nor  a  wife ;  and  therefore  modestly 
declined  their  proposals. 

Some  errors,  however,  in  the  management  of  his  af- 
fairs, and  several  losses  in  trade,  soon  brought  him  to 
a  different  way  of  thinking ;  and  he  at  last  considered, 
that  it  was  his  best  way  to  let  his  friends  know  that 
their  offers  were  at  length  acceptable.  His  first  ad- 
dress was  to  a  scrivener,  who  had  formerly  made  him 
frequent  offers  of  money  and  friendship,  at  a  time 
when,  perhaps,  he  knew  those  offers  would  have  been 
refused.  As  a  man,  therefore,  confident  of  not  being 
refused,  he  requested  the  use  of  a  hundred  guineas  for 
a  few  days,  as  he  just  then  had  occasion  for  money. 
"And  pray,  sir,"  replied  the  scrivener,  "  do  you  want 


394  ESSAYS. 

all  this  money?" — "Want  it,  sir!  "says  the  other; 
•"  if  I  did  not  want  it  I  should  not  have  asked  it."— 
"  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  says  the  friend,  "  for  those  who 
want  money  when  they  borrow,  will  always  want  money 
when  they  should  come  to  pay.  To  say  the  truth,  sir, 
money  is  money  now ;  and  I  believe  it  is  all  sunk  in 
the  bottom  of  the  sea,  for  my  part ;  he  that  has  got  a 
little,  is  a  fool  if  he  does  not  keep  what  he  has  got." 

Not  quite  disconcerted  by  this  refusal,  our  adven- 
turer was  resolved  to  try  another,  who  he  knew  was 
the  very  best  firiend  he  had  in  the  world.  The  gen- 
tleman whom  he  now  addressed,  received  his  proposal 
with  all  the  affability  that  could  be  expected  from  gen- 
erous friendship.  "  Let  me  see,  you  want  a  hundred 
guineas :  and  pray,  dear  Jack,  would  not  fifty  an- 
swer?"— "if  you  have  but  fifty  to  spare,  sir,  I  must 
be  contented." — "  Fifty  to  spare !  I  did  not  say  that, 
for  I  believe  I  have  but  twenty  about  me." — "  Then  I 
must  borrow  the  other  thirty  from  some  other  friend." 
— "And  pray,"  replied  the  friend,  "  would  it  not  be 
the  best  way  to  borrow  the  whole  money  from  that 
other  friend,  and  then  one  note  will  serve  for  all,  you 
know  ?  You  know,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  need  make 
no  ceremony  with  me  at  any  time ;  you  know,  I'm 
your  friend ;  and  when  you  choose  a  bit  of  dinner  or 
so — You,  Tom,  see  the  gentleman  down.  You  won't 
forget  to  dine  with  us  now  and  then.  Your  very 
humble  servant." 

Distressed,  but  not  discouraged,  at  this  treatment, 
he  was  at  last  resolved  to  find  that  assistance  from 
love,  which  he  could  not  have  from  friendship.  A 
lady,  a  distant  relation  by  the  mother's  side,  had 


ESSAYS.  395 

a  fortune  in  her  own  hands :  and,  as  she  had  already 
made  all  the  advances  that  her  sex's  modesty  would 
permit,  he  made  his  proposal  with  confidence.  He  soon,, 
however,  perceived  that  no  bankrupt  ever  found  the 
fair  one  kind.  She  had  lately  fallen  deeply  in  love 
with  another,  who  had  more  money,  and  the  whole 
neighborhood  thought  it  would  be  a  match. 

Every  day  now  began  to  strip  my  poor  friend  of  his 
former  finery  ;  his  clothes  flew,  piece  by  piece,  to  the 
pawnbroker's,  and  he  seemed  at  length  equipped  in  the 
genuine  livery  of  misfortune.  But  still  he  thought 
himself  secure  from  actual  necessity ;  the  numberless 
invitations  he  had  received  to  dine,  even  after  his 
losses,  were  yet  unanswered ;  he  was  therefore  now 
resolved  to  accept  of  a  dinner,  because  he  wanted  one  ; 
and  in  this  manner  he  actually  lived  among  his  friends 
a  whole  week  without  being  openly  affronted.  The  last 
place  I  saw  him  in  was  at  a  reverend  divine's.  He 
had,  as  he  fancied,  just  nicked  the  tune  of  dinner,  for 
he  came  in  as  the  cloth  was  laying.  He  took  a  chair, 
without  being  desired,  and  talked  for  some  time  with- 
out being  attended  to.  He  assured  the  company,  that 
nothing  procured  so  good  an  appetite  as  a  walk  in  the 
Park,  where  he  had  been  that  morning.  He  went  on, 
and  praised  the  figure  of  the  damask  table-cloth ;  talk- 
ed of  a  feast  where  he  had  been  the  day  before,  but 
that  the  venison  was  over-done.  But  all  this  procured 
him  no  invitation  ;  finding,  therefore,  the  gentleman  of 
the  house  insensible  to  all  his  fetches,  he  thought 
proper,  a*,  last  to  retire,  and  mend  his  appetite  by  a 
second  walk  in  the  Park. 

y«M*  cJaen,  O  ye  beggars  of  my  acquaintance,  whetb 


396  ESSAYS. 

er  in  rags  or  lace,  whether  in  Kent  street  or  the  Mall, 
whether  at  the  Smyrna  or  St.  Giles's,  might  I  be  per- 
mitted  to  advise  as  a  friend,  never  seem  to  want  the 
favor  which  you  solicit.     Apply  to  every  passion  but 
human  pity  for  redress ;  you  may  find  permanent  re- 
lief from  vanity,  from  self-interest,  or  from  avarice, 
but  from  compassion  never.     The  very  eloquence  of  p, 
poor  man  is  disgusting ;  and  that  mouth  whicli  is  open 
ed  even  by  wisdom,  is  seldom  expected  to  close  with 
out  the  horrors  of  a  petition. 

To  ward  off  the  gripe  of  poverty,  you  must  pretend 
to  be  a  stranger  to  her,  and  she  will  at  least  use  you 
with  ceremony.  If  you  be  caught  dining  upon  a  half- 
penny porringer  of  peas-soup  and  potatoes,  praise  the 
wholesomeness  of  your  frugal  repast.  You  may  ob- 
serve that  Dr.  Cheyne  has  prescribed  peas-broth  for 
the  gravel ;  hint  that  you  are  not  one  of  those  who  are 
always  making  a  deity  of  your  belly.  If,  again,  you 
are  obliged  to  wear  a  flimsy  stuff  in  the  midst  of  win- 
ter, be  the  first  to  remark,  that  stuffs  are  very  much 
worn  at  Paris ;  or,  if  there  be  found  any  irreparable 
defects  in  any  part  of  your  equipage,  which  cannot  be 
concealed  by  all  the  arts  of  sitting  cross-legged,  coax- 
ing, or  darning,  say,  that  neither  you  nor  Sir  Samson 
Gideon  were  ever  very  fond  of  dress.  If  you  be  a 
philosopher,  hint  that  Plato  or  Seneca  are  the  tailors 
you  choose  to  employ  ;  assure  the  company  that  man 
ought  to  be  content  with  a  bare  covering,  since  what 
now  is  so  much  his  pride,  was  formerly  his  shame.  In 
short,  however  caught,  never  give  out ;  but  ascribe  to 
the  frugality  of  your  disposition  what  others  might  be 
apt  to  attribute  to  the  narrowness  of  your  circumstan- 


ESSAYS.  397 

ces.  To  be  poor,  and  to  seem  poor,  is  a  certain  meth- 
od never  to  rise  ;  pride  in  the  great  is  hateful ;  in  the* 
wise  it  is  ridiculous  ;  but  beggarly  pride  is  a  rational 
vanity,  which  I  have  been  taught  to  applaud  and  excuse. 


ON   GENEROSITY   AND   JUSTICE. 

LYSIPPUS  is  a  man  whose  greatness  of  soul  the 
whole  world  admires.  His  generosity  is  such,  that  it 
prevents  a  demand,  and  saves  the  receiver  the  confu- 
sion of  a  request.  His  liberality  also  does  not  oblige 
more  by  its  greatness,  than  by  his  inimitable  grace  in 
giving.  Sometimes  he  even  distributes  his  bounties  to 
strangers,  and  has  been  known  to  do  good  offices  to 
those  who  professed  themselves  his  enemies.  All  the 
world  are  unanimous  in  the  praise  of  his  generosity : 
there  is  only  one  sort  of  people  who  complain  of  his 
conduct.  Lysippus  does  not  pay  his  debts. 

It  is  no  difficult  matter  to  account  for  a  conduct  so 
seemingly  incompatible  with  itself.  There  is  greatness 
in  being  generous,  and  there  is  only  simple  justice  in 
satisfying  creditors.  Generosity  is  the  part  of  a  soul 
raised  above  the  vulgar.  There  is  in  it  something  of 
what  we  admire  in  heroes,  and  praise  with  a  degree  of 
rapture.  Justice,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  mechanic  vir- 
tue, only  fit  for  tradesmen,  and  what  is  practised  by 
every  broker  in  Change- alley. 

In  paying  his  debts  a  man  barely  does  his  duty,  and 
it  is  an  action  attended  with  no  sort  of  glory.  Should 
Lysippus  satisfy  his  creditors,  who  would  be  at  the 


398  ESSAYS. 

pains  of  telling  it  to  the  world  ?  Generosity  is  a  vir- 
tue of  a  very  different  complexion.  It  is  raised  above 
duty,  and  from  its  elevation  attracts  the  attention  and 
the  praises  of  us  little  mortals  below. 

In  this  manner  do  men  generally  reason  upon  justice 
and  generosity.  The  first^  is  despised,  though  a  virtue 
essential  to  the  good  of  society,  and  the  other  attracts 
our  esteem,  which  too  frequently  proceeds  from  an  im- 
petuosity of  temper,  rather  directed  by  vanity  than 
reason.  Lysippus  is  told  that  his  banker  asks  a  debt 
of  forty  pounds,  and  that  a  distressed  acquaintance 
petitions  for  the  same  sum.  He  gives  it  without  hesi- 
tating to  the  latter,  for  he  demands  as  a  favor  what 
the  former  requires  as  a  debt. 

Mankind  in  general  are  not  sufficiently  acquainted 
with  the  import  of  the  word  justice :  it  is  commonly 
believed  to  consist  only  in  a  performance  of  those  du- 
ties to  which  the  laws  of  society  can  oblige  us.  This 
I  allow  is  sometimes  the  import  of  the  word,  and  in 
uhis  sense  justice  is  distinguished  from  equity ;  but 
there  is  a  justice  still  more  extensive,  and  which  can 
be  shown  to  embrace  all  the  virtues  united. 

Justice  may  be  defined,  that  virtue  which  impels  us 
to  give  to  every  person  what  is  his  due.  In  this  ex- 
tended sense  of  the  word,  it  comprehends  the  practice 
of  every  virtue  which  reason  prescribes,  or  society 
should  expect.  Our  duty  to  our  Maker,  to  each  other, 
and  to  ourselves,  are  fully  answered,  if  we  give  them 
what  we  owe  them.  Thus  justice,  properly  speaking, 
Is  the  only  virtue;  and  all  the  rest  have  their  origin 

In  it 

The  qualities  of  caudor,  fortitude,  charity,  and  gene- 


ESSAYS.  399 

rosily,  ior  instance,  are  not  in  their  own  nature  virtues, 
and  if  ever  they  deserve  the  title,  it  is  owing  only  to 
justice,  which  impels  and  directs  them.  Without  such 
a  moderator,  candor  might  become  indiscretion,  forti- 
tude obstinacy,  charity  imprudence,  and  generosity 
mistaken  profusion. 

A  disinterested  action,  if  it  be  not  conducted  by  jus- 
tice, is,  at  best,  indifferent  in  its  nature,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  even  turns  to  vice.  The  expenses  of  society, 
of  presents,  of  entertainments,  and  the  other  helps  to 
cheerfulness,  are  actions  merely  indifferent,  when  not 
repugnant  to  a  better  method  of  disposing  of  our  sup- 
erfluities ;  but  they  become  vicious  when  they  obstruct 
or  exhaust  our  abilities  from  a  more  virtuous  disposi- 
tion of  our  circumstances. 

True  generosity  is  a  duty  as  indispensably  necessary 
as  those  imposed  upon  us  by  law.  It  is  a  rule  impos- 
ed on  us  by  reason,  which  should  be  the  sovereign  law 
of  a  rational  being.  But  this  generosity  does  not  con- 
sist in  obeying  every  impulse  of  humanity  in  following 
blind  passion  for  our  guide,  and  impairing  our  circum- 
stances by  present  benefactions,  so  as  to  render  us  in- 
capable of  future  ones. 

Misers  are  generally  characterized  as  men  without 
honor,  or  without  humanity,  who  live  only  to  accumu- 
late, and  to  this  passion  sacrifice  every  other  happiness. 
They  have  been  described  as  madmen,  who,  in  th« 
midst  of  abundance,  banish  every  pleasure,  and  make, 
from  imaginary  wants,  real  necessities.  But  few,  very 
few,  correspond  to  this  exaggerated  picture ;  and,  per 
haps,  there  is  not  one  in  whom  all  these  circumstance;* 
are  found  United.  Instead  of  this,  we  find  the  sober 


400  ESSAYS. 

and  the  industrious  branded  by  the  vain  and  the  idle 
with  this  odious  appellation ;  men  who,  by  frugality 
and  labor,  raise  themselves  above  their  equals,  and  con- 
tribute their  share  of  industry  to  the  common  stock. 

Whatever  the  vain  or  the  ignorant  may  say,  well 
were  it  for  society,  had  we  more  of  these  characterSj 
amongst  us.  In  general,  these  close  men  are  found  at 
last  the  true  benefactors  of  society.  With  an  avaric- 
ious man  we  seldom  lose  in  our  dealings,  but  too  fre- 
quently in  our  commerce  with  prodigality. 

A  French  priest,  whose  name  was  Godinot,  went  for 
a  long  time  by  the  name  of  the  Griper.  He  refused  to 
relieve  the  most  apparent  wretchedness,  and  by  a  skil- 
ful management  of  his  vineyard,  had  the  good  fortune 
to  acquire  immense  sums  of  money.  The  inhabitants 
of  Rheims,  who  were  his  fellow-citizens,  detested  him ; 
and  the  populace,  who  seldom  love  a  miser,  wherever 
he  went,  followed  him  with  shouts  of  contempt.  He 
still,  however,  continued  his  former  simplicity  of  life, 
li's  amazing  and  unremitted  frugality.  He  had  long 
perceived  the  wants  of  the  poor  in  the  city,  particular- 
ly in  having  no  water  but  what  they  were  obliged  to 
buy  at  an  advanced  price ;  wherefore,  that  whole  for- 
tune which  he  had  been  amassing,  he  laid  out  in  an 
aqueduct,  by  which  he  did  the  poor  more  useful  and 
lasting  service,  than  if  he  had  distributed  his  whole  in- 
come in  charity  every  day  at  his  door. 

Among  men  long  conversant  with  books,  we  too  fre- 
quently find  those  misplaced  virtues,  of  which  I  have 
been  now  complaining.  We  find  the  studious  animated 
with  a  strong  passion  for  the  great  virtues,  as  they  are 
inistakingly  called,  and  utterly  forgetful  of  the  ordinary 


ESSAYS.  401 

0nes.  The  declamations  of  philosophy  are  generally 
rather  exhausted  on  those  supererogatory  duties,  than 
on  such  as  are  indispensably  necessary.  A  man,  there- 
fore, who  has  taken  his  ideas  of  mankind  from  study 
alone,  generally  comes  into  the  world  with  a  heart 
melting  of  every  fictitious  distress.  Thus  he  is  in- 
duced, by  misplaced  liberality,  to  put  himself  into  the 
indigent  circumstances  of  the  person  he  relieves. 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  the  advice  of  one  of 
the  ancients,  to  a  young  man  whom  he  saw  giving  away 
all  his  substance  to  pretended  distress.  "  It  is  possible, 
that  the  person  you  relieve  may  be  an  honest  man ;  and 
I  know  that  you,  who  relieve  him,  are  such.  You  see 
then,  by  your  generosity,  that  you  rob  a  man  who  is 
certainly  deserving,  to  bestow  it  on  one  who  may  pos- 
sibly be  a  rogue  ;  and,  while  you  are  unjust  in  reward- 
ing uncertain  merit,  you  are  doubly  guilty  by  stripping 
yourself." 


ON   THE   EDUCATION.  OF  YOUTH. 

As  few  subjects  are  more  interesting  to  society,  so 
few  have  been  more  frequently  written  upon,  than  the 
education  of  youth.  Yet  it  is  a  little  surprising  that 
it  has  been  treated  almost  by  all  in  a  declamatory  man- 
ner. They  have  insisted  largely  on  the  advantages 
that  result  from  it,  both  to  individuals  and  to  society ; 
and  have  expatiated  in  the  praise  of  what  none  have 
aver  been  so  hardy  as  to  call  in  question. 

Instead  of  giving  us  fine  but  empty  harangues  upon 
this  subiect,  instead  of  indulging  each  his  particular  and 
34*  " 


402  ESSAYS. 

whimsical  systems,  it  had  been  much  better  if  the  writers 
on  this  subject  had  treated  it  in  a  more  scientific  man- 
ner, repressed  all  the  sallies  of  imagination,  and  given 
us  the  result  of  their  observations  with  didactic  sim- 
plicity. Upon  this  subject,  the  smallest  errors  are  of 
the  most  dangerous  consequence,  and  the  author  should 
venture  the  imputation  of  stupidity  upon  a  topic,  where 
his  slightest  deviations  may  tend  to  injure  the  rising 
generation.  However,  such  are  the  whimsical  and 
erroneous  productions  written  upon  this  subject.  Their 
authors  have  studied  to  be  uncommon,  not  to  be  just; 
ami  at  present,  we  want  a  treatise  upon  education,  not 
to  tell  us  anything  new,  but  to  explode  the  errors 
which  have  been  introduced  by  the  admirers  of  novel- 
ty. It  is  in  this  manner  books  become  numerous ;  a 
ICMIV  of  novelty  produces  a  book,  and  other  books  are 
lequired  to  destroy  the  former. 

I  shall,  therefore,  throw  out  a  few  thoughts  upon 
this  subject,  which,  though  known,  have  not  been  at- 
tended to  by  others  ;  and  shall  dismiss  all  attempts  to 
please,  while  I  study  only  instruction. 

The  manner  in  which  our  youth  of  London  are  at 
present  educated,  is,  some  in  free-schools  in  the  city, 
but  the  greater  number  in  boarding-schools  about 
town.  The  parent  justly  consults  the  health  of  his 
child  and  finds  an  education  in  the  country  tends  to 
promote  this,  much  more  than  a  continuance  in  town. 
Thus  far  he  is  right:  if  there  were  a  possibility  of 
having  even  our  free-schools  kept  a  little  out  of  town, 
it  would  certainly  conduce  to  the  health  and  vigor  of, 
perhaps,  the  mind  as  well  as  the  body.  It  may  be 
thought  whimsical,  but  it  is  truth ;  I  have  found  by 


ESSAYS.  493 

experience,  that  they,  who  have  spent  all  their  lives 
m  cities,  contract  not  only  an  effiminancy  of  habit,  but 
even  of  thinking. 

But  when  I  have  said  that  the  boarding-schools  are 
preferable  to  free-schools,  as  being  in  the  country,  this 
is  certainly  the  only  advantage  I  can  allow  them : 
otherwise  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  the  ignorance  of 
those  who  take  upon  them  the  important  trust  of  edu- 
cation. Is  any  man  unfit  for  any  of  the  professions, 
he  finds  his  last  resource  in  setting  up  a  school.  Do 
any  become  bankrupts  in  trade,  they  still  set  up  a 
boarding-school,  and  drive  a  trade  this  way,  when  all 
others  fail ;  nay,  I  have  been  told  of  butchers  and  bar- 
bers, who  have  turned  school-masters  ;  and,  more  sur- 
prising still,  made  fortunes  in  their  new  profession. 

Could  we  think  ourselves  in  a  country  of  civilized 
people,  could  it  be  conceived-  that  we  have  any  regard 
for  posterity,  when  such  are  permitted  to  take  the 
charge  of  the  morals,  genius,  and  health,  of  those  dear 
little  pledges  who  may  one  day  be  the  guardians  of  the 
liberties  of  Europe ;  and  who  may  serve  as  the  honor 
and  bulwark  of  their  aged  parents  ?  The  care  of  our 
children,  is  it  below  the  state  ?  Is  it  fit  to  indulge  the 
caprice  of  the  ignorant  with  the  disposal  of  their  chil- 
dren in  this  particular?  For  the  state  to  take  the 
charge  of  all  its  children,  as  in  Persia  or  Sparta,  might 
at  present  be  inconvenient ;  but  surely,  with  great  ease, 
it  might  cast  an  eye  to  their  instructors.  Of  all  pro- 
fessions in  society,  I  do  not  know  a  more  useful,  or  a 
more  honorable  one,  than  a  school-master ;  at  the  same 
time  that  I  do  not  see  any  more  generally  despised,  or 
whose  talents  are  so  ill  rewarded. 


404  ESSAYS. 

Were  the  salaries  of  schoolmasters  to  be  augmented 
from  a  diminution  of  useless  sinecures,  how  might  it 
turn  to  the  advantage  of  this  people !  a  people  whom, 
without  flattery,  I  may,  in  other  respects,  term  the 
wisest  and  greatest  upon  earth.  But  while  I  would 
reward  the  deserving,  I  would  dismiss  those  utterly 
unqualified  for  their  employment ;  in  short,  I  would 
make  the  business  of  a  schoolmaster  every  way  more 
respectable  by  increasing  their  salaries,  and  admitting 
only  men  of  proper  abilities. 

It  is  true  we  have  schoolmasters  appointed,  and  they 
have  some  small  salaries ;  but  where  at  present  there 
is  only  one  schoolmaster  appointed,  there  should  at 
least  be  two ;  and  wherever  the  salary  is  at  present 
twenty  pounds,  it  should  be  a  hundred.  Do  we  give 
immoderate  benefices  to  those  who  instruct  ourselves, 
and  shall  we  deny  even  subsistence  to  those  who  in- 
struct our  children  ?  Every  member  of  society  should 
be  paid  in  proportion  as  he  is  necessary  ;  and  I  will  be 
bold  enough  to  say,  that  schoolmasters  in  a  state  are 
more  necessary  than  clergymen,  as  children  stand  in 
more  need  of  instruction  than  their  parents. 

But  instead  of  this,  as  I  have  already  observed,  we 
send  them  to  board  in  the  country,  to  the  most  ignor- 
ant set  of  men  that  can  be  imagined.  But,  lest  the 
ignorance  of  the  master  be  not  sufficient,  the  child  is 
generally  consigned  to  the  usher.  This  is  commonly 
some  poor  needy  animal,  little  superior  to  a  footman 
either  in  learning  or  spirit,  invited  to  his  place  by  an 
advertisement,  and  kept  there  merely  from  his  being 
of  a  complying  disposition,  and  making  the  children 
fond  of  him.  '  You  give  your  child  to  be  educated  to 


ESSAYS.         .  405 

a  slave,'  says  a  philosopher  to  a  rich  man  ;  -  instead  of 
one  slave  you  will  then  have  two.' 

It  were  well,  however,  if  parents  upon  fixing  their 
children  in  one  of  these  houses,  would  examine  the 
abilities  of  the  usher,  as  well  as  the  master ;  for  what- 
ever they  are  told  to  the  contrary,  the  usher  is  gene- 
rally the  person  most  employed  in  their  education.  If, 
then,  a  gentleman,  upon  putting  his  son  to  one  of  these 
houses,  sees  the  usher  disregarded  by  the  master,  he 
may  depend  upon  it,  that  he  is  equally  disregarded  by 
the  boys ;  the  truth  is,  in  spite  of  all  their  endeavors 
to  please,  they  are  generally  the  laughing-stock  of  the 
school.  Every  trick  is  played  upon  the  usher :  the  od- 
dity of  his  manners,  his  dress,  or  his  language,  are  a 
fund  of  external  ridicule  ;  the  master  himself,  now  and 
then,  cannot  avoid  joining  in  the  laugh  ;  and  the  poor 
wretch,  eternally  resenting  this  ill-usage,  seems  to  live 
in  a  state  of  war  with  all  the  family.  This  is  a  very  prop- 
er person,  is  it  not,  to  give  children  a  relish  for  learn- 
ing ?  They  must  esteem  learning  very  much,  when  they 
see  its  professors  used  with  such  little  ceremony !  If 
the  usher  be  despised,  the  father  may  be  assured  that 
his  child  will  never  be  pioperly  instructed. 

But  let  me  suppose  that  there  are  some  schools  with- 
out these  inconveniences,  where  the  masters  and  ushers 
are  men  of  learning,  reputation,  and  assiduity.  If 
there  are  to  be  found  such,  they  cannot  be  prized  in  a 
state  sufficiently.  A  boy  will  learn  more  true  wisdom 
in  a  public  school  in  a  year,  than  by  private  education 
in  five.  It  is  not  from  masters,  but  from  their  equals, 
youth  learn  a  knowledge  of  the  world  ;  the  little  tricks 
they  play  each  other,  the  punishment  that  frequently 


406  ESSAYS. 

attends  the  commission,  is  a  just  picture  of  the  great 
world  ;  and  all  the  ways  of  men  are  practised  in  a  pub- 
lic school  in  miniature.  It  is  true,  a  child  is  early 
made  acquainted  with  some  vices  in  a  school ;  but  it  is 
better  to  know  these  when  a  boy,  than  be  first  taught 
them  when  a  man ;  for  their  novelty  then  may  have 
irresistible  charms. 

In  a  public  education,  boys  early  learn  temperance ; 
and  if  the  parents  and  friends  would  give  them  less 
money  upon  their  usual  visits,  it  would  be  much  to 
their  advantage ;  since  it  may  justly  be  said,  that  a 
great  part  of  their  disorders  arise  from  surfeit,  '  plus 
occidit  gula  quam  gladius.'  And  now  I  am  come  to 
the  article  of  health,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  observe, 
that  Mr.  Locke  and  some  others  have  advised  that 
children  should  be  inured  to  cold,  to  fatigue,  and  hard- 
ship, from  their  youth ;  but  Mr.  Locke  was  but  an  in- 
different physician.  Habit,  I  grant,  has  great  influ- 
ence over  our  constitutions ;  but  we  have  not  precise 
ideas  upon  this  subject. 

We  know  that  among  savages,  and  even  among  our 
peasants,  there  are  found  children  born  with  such  con- 
stitutions, that  they  cross  rivers  by  swimming,  endure 
cold,  thirst,  hunger,  and  want  of  sleep,  to  a  surprising 
degree :  that  when  they  happen  to  fall  sick,  they  are 
cured  without  the  help  of  medicine,  by  nature  alone. 
Such  examples  are  adduced  to  persuade  us  to  imitate 
their  manner  of  education,  and  accustom  ourselves  be- 
times to  support  the  same  fatigues.  But  had  these 
gentlemen  considered  first  how  many  lives  are  lost  in 
this  ascetic  practice :  had  they  considered,  that  those 
savages  and  peasants  are  generally  not  so  long  lived 


ESSAYS.  407 

as  they  who  have  led  a  more  indolent  life ;  that  the 
more  laborious  the  life  is,  the  less  populous  is  the  coun- 
try ;  and  they  considered,  that  what  physicians  call  the 
4  stamina  vitae,'  by  fatigue  and  labor  become  rigid,  and 
thus  anticipate  old  age ;  that  the  number  who  survive 
those  rude  trials,  bears  no  proportion  to  those  who  die 
in  the  experiment;  had  these  things  been  properly 
considered,  they  would  not  have  thus  extolled  an  educa- 
tion begun  in  fatigue  and  hardships.  Peter  the  Great, 
willing  to  inure  the  children  of  his  seamen  to  a  life  of 
hardship,  ordered  that  they  should  only  drink  sea- 
water  ;  but  they  unfortunately  all  died  under  the  trial. 

But  while  I  would  exclude  all  unnecessary  labors, 
yet  still  I  would  recommend  temperance  in  the  highest 
degree.  No  luxurious  dishes  with  high  seasoning,  noth- 
ing given  children  to  force  an  appetite  ;  as  little  sugar- 
ed or  salted  provisions  as  possible,  though  ever  so 
pleasing  ;  but  milk,  morning  and  night,  should  be  their 
constant  food.  This  diet  would  make  them  more 
healthy  than  any  of  those  slops  that  are  usually  cooked 
by  the  mistress  of  a  boarding-school :  besides,  it  cor- 
rects any  consumptive  habits,  not  unfrequently  found 
amongst  the  children  of  city  parents. 

As  boys  should  be  educated  with  temperance,  so  the 
first  greatest  lesson  that  should  be  taught  them  is  to 
admire  frugality.  It  is  by  the  exercise  of  this  virtue 
alone,  they  can  ever  expect  to  be  useful  members  of 
society.  It  is  true,  lectures  continually  repeated  upon 
this  subject,  may  make  some  boys,  when  they  grow  up, 
run  into  an  extreme,  and  become  misers ;  but  it  were 
well,  had  we  more  misers  than  we  have  amongst  us.  I 
know  few  characters  more  useful  in  society ;  for  a  man's 


408  ESSAYS. 

having  a  larger  or  smaller  share  of  money  lying  use 
less  by  him,  in  no  way  injures  the  commonwealth 
since,  should  every  miser  now  exhaust  his  stores,  thu 
might  make  gold  more  plenty,  but  it  would  not  increase 
the  commodities  or  pleasures  of  life ;  they  would  still 
remain  as  they  are  at  present :  it  matters  not,  there- 
fore, whether  men  are  misers  or  not,  if  they  be  only 
frugal,  laborious,  and  fill  the  station  they  have  chos- 
en. If  they  deny  themselves  the  necessaries  of  life, 
society  is  no  way  injured  by  their  folly. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  romances,  which  praise  young 
men  of  spirit,  who  go  through  a  variety  of  adventures, 
and  at  last  conolude  a  life  of  dissipation,  folly  and  ex 
travagaiice,  in  riches  and  matrimony,  there  should  b«v 
some  men  of  wit  employed  to  compose  books  tha* 
might  equally  interest  the  passions  of  our  youth,  where* 
such  a  one  might  be  praised  for  having  resisted  allure- 
ments when  young,  and  how  he,  at  last,  became  lord 
mayor ;  how  he  was  married  to  a  lady  of  great  sense, 
fortune,  and  beauty :  to  be  as  explicit  as  possible,  the 
old  story  of  Whittington,  were  his  cat  left  out,  might 
be  more  serviceable  to  the  tender  mind,  than  either 
Tom  Jones,  Joseph  Andrews,  or  a  hundred  others, 
where  frugality  is  the  only  good  quality  the  hero  is 
not  possessed  of.  Were  our  schoolmasters,  if  any  of 
them  have  sense  enough  to  draw  up  such  a  work,  thus 
employed,  it  would  be  much  more  serviceable  to  their 
pupils,  than  all  the  grammars  and  dictionaries  they 
may  publish  these  ten  years. 

Children  should  early  be  instructed  in  the  arts  from 
which  they  may  afterwards  draw  the  greatest  advan- 
tages. When  the  wonders  of  nature  are  never  exposed 


ESSAYS.  409 

to  our  view,  we  have  no  great  desire  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  those  parts  of  learning  which  pretend  to 
account  for  the  phenomena.  One  of  the  ancients  com- 
plains, that  as  soon  as  young  men  have  left  school,  and 
are  obliged  to  converse  with  the  world,  they  fancy 
themselves  transported  into  a  new  region.  "  Ut,  cum 
in  forum  venerint,  existiment  se  in  alium  terrarum  or- 
bem  delatos."  We  should  early,  therefore,  instruct 
them  in  the  experiments,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  of 
knowledge,  and  leave  to  maturer  age  the  accounting 
for  the  causes.  But,  instead  of  that,  when  boys  begin 
natural  philosophy  in  colleges,  they  have  not  the  least 
curiosity  for  those  parts  of  the  science  which  are  pro- 
posed for  their  instruction;  they  have  never  before 
seen  the  phenomena,  and  consequently  have  no  curios- 
ity to  learn  the  reasons.  Might  natural  philosophy, 
therefore,  be  made  their  pastime  in  school,  by  this 
means  it  would  in  college  become  their  amusement. 

In  several  of  the  machines  now  in  use,  there  would 
be  ample  field  both  for  instruction  and  amusement; 
the  different  sorts  of  the  phosphorus,  the  artificial 
pyrites,  magnetism,  electricity,  the  experiments  upon  the 
rarefaction  and  weight  of  the  air,  and  those  upon  elas- 
tic bodies,  might  employ  their  idle  hours  ;  and  none 
should  be  called  from  play  to  see  such  experiments 
but  such  as  thought  proper.  At  first,  then,  it  would 
be  sufficient  if  the  instruments,  and  the  effects  of  their 
combination,  were  only  shown ;  the  causes  would  be 
deferred  to  a  maturer  age,  or  to  those  times  when  nat- 
ural curiosity  prompts  us  to  discover  the  wonders  of 
nature.  Man  is  placed  in  this  world  as  a  spectator  j 
35 


tlO  E88AT8. 

when  he  is  tired  of  wondering  at  all  the  novelties 
about  him,  and  not  till  then,  does  he  desire  to  be  made 
acquainted  with  the  causes  that  create  those  wonders. 

What  I  have  observed  with  regard  to  natural  phil- 
osophy, I  would  extend  to  every  other  science  whatso- 
ever. We  should  teach  them  as  many  of  the  facts  as 
were  possible,  and  defer  the  causes  until  they  seemed 
of  themselves  desirous  of  knowing  them.  A  mind  thus 
leaving  school,  stored  with  the  simple  experiences  of 
science,  would  be  the  fittest  in  the  world  for  the  col- 
lege-course ;  and,  though  such  a  youth  might  not  ap- 
pear so  bright  or  so  talkative,  as  those  who  had 
learned  the  real  principles  and  causes  of  some  of  the 
sciences,  yet  he  would  make  a  wiser  man,  and  would 
retain  a  more  lasting  passion  for  tetters,  than  he  who 
was  early  burdened  with  the  disagreeable  institution 
of  effect  and  cause. 

In  history,  such  stories  alone  should  be  laid  before 
them  as  might  catch  the  imagination  ;  instead  of  this, 
they  are  too  frequently  obliged  to  toil  through  the  four 
empires,  as  they  are  called,  where  their  memories  are 
burdened  by  a  number  of  disgusting  names,  that  de- 
stroy all  their  future  relish  for  our  best  historians, 
who  may  be  termed  the  truest  teachers  of  wisdom. 

Every  species  of  flattery  should  be  carefully  avoid- 
ed ;  a  boy  who  happens  to  say  a  sprightly  thing  is 
generally  applauded  so  much,  that  he  sometimes  con- 
tinues a  coxcomb  all  his  life  after.  He  is  reputed  a 
wit  at  fourteen,  and  becomes  a  blockhead  at  twenty. 
Nurses,  footman,  and  such,  should  therefore  be  driven 
away  as  much  as  possible.  I  was  even  going  to  add, 
that  the  mother  herself  should  stifle  her  pleasure  or 


ESSAYS.  411 

her  vanity,  when  little  master  happens  to  say  a  good 
or  a  smart  thing.  Those  modest,  lubberly  boys,  who 
seem  to  want  spirit,  generally  go  through  their  busi- 
ness with  more  ease  to  themselves,  and  more  satisfac- 
tion to  their  instructors. 

There  has,  of  late,  a  gentleman  appeared,  who  thinks 
the  study  of  rhetoric  essential  to  a  perfect  education. 
That  bold  male  eloquence,  which  often,  without  pleas- 
ing, convinces,  is  generally  destroyed  by  such  institu- 
tions. Convincing  eloquence  is  infinitely  more  service- 
able to  its  possessor,  than  the  most  florid  harangue,  or 
the  most  pathetic  tones,  that  can  be  imagined  ;  and  the 
man  who  is  thoroughly  convinced  himself,  who  under- 
stands his  subject,  and  the  language  he  speaks  in,  will 
be  more  apt  to  silence  opposition,  than  he  who  studies 
the  force  of  his  periods,  and  fills  our  ears  with  sounds, 
while  our  minds  are  destitute  of  conviction. 

It  was  reckoned  the  fault  of  the  orators  at  the  de- 
cline of  the  Roman  empire,  when  they  had  been  long 
instructed  by  rhetoricians,  that  their  periods  were  so 
harmonious,  as  that  they  could  be  sung  as  well  as 
spoken.  What  a  ridiculous  figure  must  one  of  these 
gentlemen  cut,  thus  measuring  syllables,  and  weighing 
words,  when  he  should  plead  the  cause  of  his  client ! 
Two  architects  were  once  candidates  for  the  building  a 
certain  temple  at  Athens ;  the  first  harangued  the 
crowd  very  learnedly  upon  the  different  orders  of  archi- 
tecture, and  showed  them  in  what  manner  the  temple 
should  be  built ;  the  other,  who  got  up  after  him,  only 
observed,  that  what  his  brother  had  spoken,  he  could 
do ;  and  thus  he  at  once  gained  his  cause. 

To  teach  men  to  be  orators,  is  little  less  than  to  teach 
them  to  be  poets  ;  and  for  my  part  I  should  have  too 


412  ESSAYS 

great  a  regard  for  iny  child,  to  wish  him  a  manor  only  in 
a  bookseller's  shop. 

Another  passion  which  the  present  age  is  apt  to  run 
into  is  to  make  children  learn  all  things ;  the  languages, 
the  sciences,  music,  the  exercises,  ana  painting.  Thus 
the  child  soon  becomes  a  talker  in  all  but  a  master  iii 
none.  He  thus  acquires  a  superficial  fondness  for  every- 
thing, and  only  shows  his  ignorance  when  he  attempts  to 
exhibit  his  skill. 

As  I  deliver  my  thoughts  without  method  or  connec- 
tion, so  the  reader  must  not  be  surprised  to  find  me  once 
more  addressing  schoolmasters  on  the  present  method 
of  teaching  the  learned  languages,  which  is  commonly 
by  literal  translations.  I  would  ask  such  if  they  were  to 
travel  a  journey,  whether  those  parts  of  the  road  in  which 
they  found  the  greatest  difficulties  would  not  be  the  most 
strongly  remembered  ?  Boys  who,  if  I  may  continue  the 
allusion,  gallop  through  one  of  the  ancients  with  the  as- 
sistance of  a  translation,  can  have  but  a  very  slight  ac- 
quaintance either  with  the  author  or  his  language.  It  is 
by  the  exercise  of  the  mind  alone  that  a  language  is 
learned ;  but  a  literal  translation  on  the  opposite  page 
leaves  no  exercise  for  the  memory  at  all.  The  boy  will 
not  be  at  the  fatigue  of  remembering,  when  his  doubts 
are  at  once  satisfied  by  a  glance  of  the  eye :  whereas, 
were  every  word  to  be  sought  from  a  dictionary,  the 
learner  would  attempt  to  remember  them,  to  save  himself 
the  trouble  of  looking  out  for  them  for  the  future. 

To  continue  in  the  same  pedantic  strain,  of  all  the  va- 
rious grammars  now  taught  in  the  schools  about  town,  I 
would  recommend  only  the  old  common  one.  I  have  forgot 


ESSAYS.  413 

whether  Lily's,  or  an  emendation  of  him.  The  others 
may  be  improvements ;  but  such  improvements  seem 
to  me  only  mere  grammatical  niceties,  no  way  influ- 
encing the  learner ;  but  perhaps  loading  him  with  sub- 
tilties,  which  at  a  proper  age  he  must  be  at  some  pains 
to  forget. 

Whatever  pains  a  master  may  take  to  make  the 
learning  of  the  languages  agreeable  to  his  pupil,  he 
may  depend  upon  it,  it  will  be  at  first  extremely  un- 
pleasant. The  rudiments  of  every  language,  therefore, 
must  be  given  as  a  task,  not  as  an  amusement.  At- 
tempting to  deceive  children  into  instruction  of  this 
kind,  is  only  deceiving  ourselves ;  and  I  know  no  pas- 
sion capable  of  conquering  a  child's  natural  laziness 
but  fear.  Solomon  has  said  it  before  me ;  nor  is  there 
any  more  certain,  though  perhaps  more  disagreeable 
truth,  than  the  proverb  in  verse,  too  well  known  to  re- 
peat on  the  present  occasion.  It  is  very  probable  that 
parents  are  told  of  some  masters  who  never  use  the 
rod,  and  consequently  are  thought  the  properest  in- 
structors for  their  children ;  but,  though  tenderness  is 
a  requisite  quality  in  an  instructor,  yet  there  is  too 
often  the  truest  tenderness  in  well-timed  correction. 

Some  have  justly  observed,  that  all  passions  should 
be  banished  on  this  terrible  occasion ;  but  I  know  not 
how,  there  is  a  frailty  attending  human  nature  that  few 
masters  are  able  to  keep  their  temper  whilst  they  cor- 
rect. I  knew  a  good-natured  man,  who  was  sensible 
of  his  own  weakness  in  this  respect,  and  consequently 
had  recourse  to  the  following  expedient  to  prevent  his 
passions  from  being  engaged,  yet  at  the  same  time  ad- 
minister justice  with  impartiality.  Whenever  any  of 
35* 


414  ESSAYS. 

his  pupils  committed  a  fault,  he  summoned  u  jury  of 
his  peers,  I  mean  of  the  boys  of  his  own  or  the  next 
classes  to  him  :  his  accusers  stood  forth ;  he  had  liber- 
ty of  pleading  in  his  own  defence,  and  one  or  two  more 
Aad  the  liberty  of  pleading  against  him ;  when  found 
guilty  by  the  pannel,  he  was  consigned  to  the  footman, 
who  attended  in  the  house,  and  had  previous  orders  to 
punish,  but  with  lenity.  By  this  means  the  master 
took  off  the  odium  of  punishment  from  himself;  and 
the  footman,  between  whom  and  the  boys  there  could 
not  be  even  the  slightest  intimacy,  was  placed  in  such 
a  light  as  to  be  shunned  by  every  boy  in  the  school. 


ON  THE  VERSATILITY  OF  POPULAR  FAVOR. 

AN  alehouse-keeper,  near  Islington,  who  had  long 
lived  at  the  sign  of  the  French  King,  upon  the  com- 
mencement of  the  last  war  with  France,  pulled  down 
his  old  sign,  and  put  up  that  of  the  Queen  of  Hungary. 
Under  the  influence  of  her  red  face  and  golden  scep- 
tre, he  continued  to  sell  ale,  till  she  was  no  longer  the 
favorite  of  his  customers ;  he  changed  her,  therefore, 
some  time  ago,  for  the  King  of  Prussia ;  who  may 
probably  be  changed  in  turn,  for  the  next  great .  man 
that  shall  be  set  up  for  vulgar  admiration. 

Our  publican,  in  this,  imitates  the  great  exactly ; 
who  deal  out  their  figures,  one  after  the  other,  to  the 
gazing  crowd.  When  we  have  sufficiently  wondered 
at  one,  that  is  taken  in,  and  another  exhibited  in  its 


ESSAYS.  415 

room,  which  seldom  holds  its  station  long ;  for  the  mob 
are  ever  pleased  with  variety. 

I  must  own,  I  have  such  an  indifferent  opinion  of  the 
vulgar,  that  I  am  ever  led  to  suspect  that  merit  which 
raises  their  shout ;  at  least,  I  am  certain  to  find  those 
great,  and  sometimes  good  men,  who  find  satisfaction 
in  such  acclamations,  made  worse  by  it ;  and  history 
has  too  frequently  taught  me,  that  the  head  which  has 
grown  this  day  giddy  with  the  roar  of  the  million,  has 
the  very  next  been  fixed  upon  a  pole. 

As  Alexander  VI.  was  entering  a  little  town  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Rome,  which  had  been  just  evacuated 
by  the  enemy,  he  perceived  the  'townsmen  busy  in  the 
market  place  in  pulling  down  from  a  gibbet  a  figure 
which  had  been  designed  to  represent  himself.  There 
were  also  some  knocking  down  a  neighboring  statue  of 
one  of  the  Orsini  family,  with  whom  he  was  at  war,  in 
order  to  put  Alexander's  effigy  in  its  place.  It  is  possi- 
ble a  man  who  knew  less  of  the  world  would  have  con- 
demned the  adulation  of  those  barefaced  flatterers  ;  but 
Alexander  seemed  pleased  at  their  zeal,  and  turning  to 
Borgia,  his  son,  said  with  a  smile,  "  Vides,  mi  fili,  quam 
leve  discrimen  patibulum  inter  et  statuam : — You  see, 
my  son,  the  small  difference  between  a  gibbet  and  a 
statue."  If  the  great  could  be  taught  any  lesson,  this 
might  serve  to  teach  them  upon  how  weak  a  foundation 
their  glory  stands,  which  is  built  upon  popular  ap- 
plause :  for  as  such  praise  what  seems  like  merit,  they  as 
quickly  condemn  what  has  only  the  appearance  of  guilt. 

Popular  glory  is  a  perfect  coquette  ;  her  lovers  must 
toil,  feel  every  inquietude,  indulge  every  caprice ;  and, 


41 6  ESSAYS. 

perhaps,  at  last,  be  jilted  into  the  bargain.  True  glory, 
on  the  other  hand,  resembles  a  woman  of  sense :  hei 
admirers  must  play  no  tricks  ;  they  feel  no  great  anx- 
iety, for  they  are  sure,  in  the  end,  of  being  rewarded 
in  proportion  to  their  merit.  When  Swift  used  to  ap- 
pear in  public,  he  generally  had  the  toob  shouting  in 
his  train,  "  Pox  take  these  fools,"  he  would  say  ;  "  how 
much  joy  might  all  this  bawling  give  my  lord  mayor ! " 

We  have  seen  those  virtues  which  have,  while  liv- 
ing, retired  from  the  public  eye,  generally  transmitted 
to  posterity  as  the  truest  objects  of  admiration  and 
praise.  Perhaps  the  character  of  the  late  Duke  of 
Marlborough  may  one  day  be  set  up,  even  above  that 
of  his  more  talked-of  predecessor ;  since  an  assemblage 
of  all  the  mild  and  amiable  virtues  are  far  superior  to 
those  vulgarly  called  the  great  ones.  I  must  be  par- 
doned for  this  short  tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  man, 
who,  while  living,  would  as  much  detest  to  receive  any 
thing  that  wore  the  appearance  of  flattery,  as  I  should 
to  offer  it. 

I  know  not  how  to  turn  so  trite  a  subject  out  of  the 
beaten  road  of  common-place,  except  by  illustrating  it 
rather  by  the  assistance  of  my  memory  than  judgment ; 
and,  instead  of  making  reflections,  by  telling  a  story. 

A  Chinese  who  had  long  studied  the  works  of  Con- 
fucious,  who  knew  the  characters  of  fourteen  thousand 
words,  and  could  read  a  great  part  of  every  book  that 
came  in  his  way,  once  took  it  into  his  head  to  travel  into 
Europe,  and  observe  the  customs  of  a  people  whom  he 
thought  not  very  much  inferior,  even  to  his  own  coun- 
trymen, in  the  arts  of  refining  upon  every  pleasure. 
Upon  his  arrival  at  Amsterdam,  his  passion  for  letters 


ESSAYS.  417 

naturally  led  him  into  a  bookseller's  shop  ;  and,  as  he 
could  speak  a  little  Dutch,  he  civilly  asked  the  booksel- 
ler for  the  works  of  the  immortal  Xixofou.  The  book- 
seller assured  him  he  had  never  heard  the  book  men- 
tioned before.  "  What !  have  you  never  heard  of  that 
immortal  poet?  "  returned  the  other,  much  surprised, 
"that  light  of  the  eyes,  that  favorite  of  kings,  that 
rose  of  perfection  !  I  suppose  you  know  nothing  of  the 
immortal  Fipsihihi,  second  cousin  to  the  moon  ?  "  "  No- 
thing at  all,  indeed,  sir,"  returned  the  other.  "Alas !  " 
cries  our  traveller,  "  to  what  purpose,  then,  has  one  of 
these  fasted  to  death,  and  the  other  offered  himself  up  as 
a  sacrifice  to  the  Tartar  enemy,  to  gain  a  renown  which 
has  never  travelled  beyond  the  precincts  of  China  ?  " 

There  is  scarce  a  village  in  Europe,  and  not  one 
university,  that  is  not  thus  furnished  with  its  little 
great  men.  The  head  of  a  petty  corporation,  who  op- 
poses the  designs  of  a  prince,  who  would  tyrannically 
force  his  subjects  to  save  their  best  clothes  for  Sun- 
days; the  puny  pedant  who  finds  one  undiscovered 
property  in  the  polype,  or  describes  an  unheeded  pro- 
cess in  the  skeleton  of  a  mole,  and  whose  mind,  like 
his  microscope,  perceives  nature  only  in  detail ;  the 
rhymer  who  makes  smooth  verses,  and  paints  to  our 
imagination,  when  he  should  only  speak  to  our  hearts  : 
all  equally  fancy  themselves  walking  forward  to  immor- 
tality, and  desire  the  crowd  behind  them  to  look  on.  The 
crowd  takes  them  at  their  word.  Patriot,  philosopher, 
and  poet,  are  shouted  in  their  train. —  "Where  was 
there  ever  so  much  merit  seen  ?  No  times  so  important 
as  our  own ;  ages,  yet  unborn,  shall  gaze  with  wonder 
and  applause !  "  To  such  music,  the  important  pigmy 


418  ESSAYS. 

moves  forward,  bustling   and   swelling,  and  aptly   com- 
pared to  a  puddle  in  a  storm. 

I  have  lived  to  see  generals  who  once  had  crowds  hal- 
looing after  them  wherever  they  went,  who  were  be- 
praised  by  newspapers  and  magazines,  those  echoes  of  the 
voice  of  the  vulgar,  and  yet  they  have  long  sunk  into 
merited  obscurity,  with  scarce  even  an  epitaph  left  to 
flatter.  A  few  years  ago  the  herring  fishery  employed 
all  Grub-street ;  it  was  the  topic  in  every  coffee-house, 
and  the  burden  of  every  ballad.  We  were  to  drag  up 
oceans  of  gold  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea;  we  were  to 
supply  all  Europe  with  herrings  upon  our  own  terms. 
At  present  we  hear  no  more  of  all  this.  We  have  fished 
up  very  little  gold,  that  I  can  learn;  nor  do  we  furnish 
the  world  with  herrings,  as  was  expected.  Let  us  wait 
but  a  few  years  longer,  and  we  shall  find  all  our  expec- 
tations a  herring  fishery. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  MAGAZINE  IN  MINIATURE. 

We  essayists,  who  are  allowed  but  one  subject  at  a 
time,  are  by  no  means  so  fortunate  as  the  writers  of  mag- 
azines, who  write  upon  several.  If  a  magaziner  be  dull 
upon'  the  Spanish  war,  he  soon  has  us  up  again  with  the 
ghost  in  Cock-lane ;  if  the  reader  begins  to  doze  upon 
that,  he  is  quickly  roused  by  an  eastern  tale;  tales  pre- 
pare us  for  poetry,  and  poetry  for  the  meteorological 
history  of  the  weather.  It  is  the  life  and  soul  of  a  mag- 
azine, never  to  be  long  dull  upon  one  subject;  and  the 


ESSAYS.  419 

reader,  like  the  sailor's  horse,  has  at  least  the  comforta- 
ble refreshment  of  having  the  spur  often  changed. 

As  I  see  no  reason  why  they  should  carry  off  all  the 
rewards  of  genius,  I  have  some  thoughts,  for  the  future, 
of  making  this  essay  a  magazine  in  miniature  ;  I  shall 
hop  from  subject  to  subject,  and,  if  properly  encouraged, 
I  intend  in  time  to  adorn  my  feuille-volant  with  pictures. 
But  to  begin,  in  the  usual  form,  with 

A  modest  Address  to  the  Public. 

THE  public  has  been  so  often  imposed  upon  by  the  un- 
performing  promises  of  others,  that  it  is  with  the  utmost 
modesty  we  assure  them  of  our  inviolable  design  of  giving 
the  very  best  collection  that  ever  astonished  society.  The 
public  we  honor  and  regard,  and  therefore  to  instruct  and 
entertain  them  is  our  highest  ambition,  with  labors  calcu- 
lated as  well  to  the  head  as  the  heart.  If  four  extraordi- 
nary pages  of  letter-press  be  any  recommendation  of  our 
wit,  we  may  at  least  boast  the  honor  of  vindicating  our 
own  abilities.  To  say  more  in  favor  of  the  Infernal  Mag- 
azine, would  be  unworthy  the  public ;  to  say  less,  would 
bo  injurious  to  ourselves.  As  we  have  no  interested  mo- 
tives for  this  undertaking,  being  a  society  of  gentlemen 
of  distinction,  we  disdain  to  eat  or  write  like  hirelings; 
we  are  all  gentlemen,  resolved  to  sell  our  sixpenny  mag- 
azine merely  for  our  own  amusement. 

Be  careful  to  ask  for  the  Infernal  Magazine. 


420  ESSAYS. 

DEDICATION. 

TO  THAT  MOST  INGENIOUS  OF  ALL  PATRONS,  THE 
TRIPOL1NE   AMBASSADOR. 

May  it  please  your  Excellency, 

As  your  taste  in  the  fine  arts  is  universally  allowed 
and  admired,  permit  the  authors  of  the  Infernal  Maga- 
zine to  lay  the  following  sheets  humbly  at  your  excel- 
lency's toe  ;  and  should  our  labors  ever  have  the  hap- 
piness of  one  day  adorning  the  courts  of  Fez,  we  doubi 
not  that  the  influence  wherewith  we  are  honored,  shall 
be  ever  retained  with  the  most  warm  ardor  by, 
May  it  please  your  Excellency, 

Your  most  devoted  humble  servants, 

The  Authors  of  the  Infernal  Magazine. 


A   SPEECH. 

SPOKEN  BY  THE  INDIGENT  PHILOSOPHER,  TO  PERSUADE  HIS  CLUB 
AT  CATEATON  NOT  TO  DECLARE  WAR  AGAINST  SPAIN. 

MY  honest  friends  and  brother  politicians,  I  perceive 
that  the  intended  war  with  Spain  makes  many  of  you 
uneasy.  Yesterday,  as  we  were  told,  the  stocks  rose, 
«.nd  you  were  glad ;  to-day  they  fall,  and  you  are 
again  miserable.  But,  my  dear  friends,  what  is  the 
rising  or  falling  of  the  stocks  to  u.«,  who  have  no 
money  ?  Let  Nathan  Ben  Funk,  the  Dutch  Jew,  be 
glad  or  sorry  for  this ;  but  my  good  Mr.  Bellows- 
mender,  what  is  all  this  to  you  or  me  ?  You  must 
mend  broken  bellows,  and  I  write  bad  prose,  as  long 


ESSAYS.  421 

as  we  live,  whether  we  like  a  Spanish  war  or  not. 
Believe  me,  my  honest  friends,  whatever  you  may  talk 
of  libertv  and  your  own  reason,  both  that  liberty  and 
reason  are  conditionally  resigned  by  every  poor  man 
in  every  society ;  and  as  we  wer^  born  to  work,  so 
others  are  born  to  watch  over  us  while  we  are  work- 
ing. In  the  name  of  common  sense  then,  my  good 
friends,  let  the  great  keep  watch  over  us,  and  let  us 
mind  our  business,  and  perhaps  we  may  at  last  get 
money  ourselves,  and  set  beggars  at  work  in  our  turn. 
I  have  a  Latin  sentence  that  is  worth  its  weight  in 
gold,  and  which  I  shall  beg  leave  to  translate  for  your 
instruction.  An  author,  called  Lily's  Grammar,  finely 
observes,  that  "JEs  in  presenti  perfectum  format : " 
that  is,  "Ready  money  makes  a  perfect  man."  Let  us 
then  get  ready  money,  and  let  them  that  will,  spend 
theirs  by  going  to  war  with  Spain. 

RULES   FOR   BEHAVIOR. 

DRAWN  UP  BY  THE  INDIGENT  PHILOSOPHER. 

If  you  be  a  rich  man,  you  may  enter  the  room  with 
three  loud  hems,  march  deliberately  up  to  the  chimney, 
and  turn  your  back  to  the  fire.  If  you  be  a  poor  man, 
I  would  advise  you  to  shrink  into  the  room  as  fast  as 
you  can,  and  place  yourself,  as  usual,  upon  the  corner 
of  a  chair,  in  a  remote  corner. 

When  you  are  desired  to  sing  in  company,  I  would 
advise  you  to  refuse ;  for  it  is  a  thousand  to  one  but 
that  you  torment  us  with  affectation  or  a  bad  voice. 

If  you  be  young,  and  live  with  an  old  man,  I  would 
advise  you  not  to  like  gravy.  I  was  disinherited  my- 
self for  liking  gravy.  36 


422  ESSAYS. 

Do  not  laugh  much  in  public :  the  spectators  that 
are  not  as  merry  as  you,  will  hate  you,  either  because 
they  envy  your  happiness,  or  fancy  themselves  the 
subject  of  your  mirth. 
• 
RULES   FOR   RAISING   THE   DEVIL. 

Translated  from  the  Latin  of  Danaeus  de  Sortiariis,  a  writer 
contemporary  with  Calvin,  and  one  of  the  Reformers  of  om 
Chnrch. 

The  person  who  desires  to  raise  the  devil,  is  to  sac- 
rifice a  dog,  a  cat,  and  a  hen,  all  of  his  own  property, 
to  Beelzebub.  He  is  to  swear  an  eternal  obedience, 
and  then  to  receive  a  mark  in  some  unseen  place, 
either  under  the  eye-lid,  or  in  the  roof  of  the  mouth, 
inflicted  by  the  devil  himself.  Upon  this  he  has  power 
given  him  over  three  spirits ;  one  for  earth,  another 
for  air,  and  a  third  for  the  sea.  Upon  certain  times 
the  devil  holds  an  assembly  of  magicians,  in  which 
each  is  to  give  an  account  of  what  evil  he  has  done, 
and  what  he  wishes  to  do.  At  this  assembly  he  ap- 
pears in  the  shape  of  an  old  man,  or  often  like  a  goat 
with  large  horns.  They  upon  this  occasion,  renew 
their  vows  of  obedience  ;  and  then  form  a  grand  dance 
in  honor  of  their  false  deity.  The  deity  instructs  them 
in  every  method  of  injuring  mankind,  in  gathering 
poisons,  and  of  riding  upon  occasion  through  the  air. 
He  shows  them  the  whole  method,  upon  examination, 
of  giving  evasive  answers ;  his  spirits  have  power  to 
assume  the  form  of  angels  of  light,  and  there  is  but 
one  method  of  detecting  them,  viz.,  to  ask  them  in 
proper  form,  what  method  is  the  most  certain  to  pro- 


ESSAYS.  423 

pagate  the  faith  over  all  the  world  ?  To  this  they  are 
not  permitted  by  the  superior  Power  to  make  a  false 
reply,  nor  are  they  willing  to  give  the  true  one  ;  where- 
fore they  continue  silent,  and  are  thus  detected. 

BEAU   TIBBS:   A   CHARACTER. 

THOUGH  naturally  pensive,  yet  I  am  fond  of  gay 
company,  and  take  every  opportunity  of  thus  dismiss- 
ing the  mind  from  duty.  From  this  motive  I  am  of- 
ten found  in  the  centre  of  a  crowd ;  and  wherever 
pleasure  is  to  be  sold,  am  always  a  purchaser.  In  those 
places,  without  being  remarked  by  any,  I  join  in  what- 
ever goes  forward,  work  my  passions  into  a  similitude 
of  frivolous  earnestness,  shout  as  they  shout,  and  con- 
demn as  they  happen  to  disapprove.  A  mind  thus 
sunk  for  a  while  below  its  natural  standard,  is  quali- 
fied for  stronger  nights,  as  those  first  retire  who  would 
spring  forward  with  greater  vigor. 

Attracted  by  the  serenity  of  the  evening,  a  friend 
and  I  lately  went  to  gaze  upon  the  company  in  one  of 
the  public  walks  near  the  city.  Here  we  sauntered 
together  for  some  time,  either  praising  the  beauty  of 
such  as  were  handsome,  or  the  dresses  of  such  as  had 
nothing  else  to  recommend  them.  We  had  gone  thus 
deliberately  forward  for  some  time,  when  my  friend, 
stopping  on  a  sudden,  caught  me  by  the  elbow,  and 
led  me  out  of  the  public  walk.  I  could  perceive  by 
the  quickness  of  his  pace,  and  by  his  frequently 
looking  behind,  that  he  was  attempting  to  avoid  some- 
body who  followed :  we  now  turned  to  the  right,  then 
to  the  left :  as  we  went  forward,  he  still  went  faster, 


424  ESSAYS. 

but  in  vain  :  the  person  whom  he  attempted  to  escape, 
hunted  us  through  every  doubling,  and  gained  upon  us 
each  moment ;  so  that  at  last  we  fairly  stood  still,  re- 
solving to  face  what  we  could  not  avoid. 

Our  pursuer  soon  came  up,  and  joined  us  with  all 
the  familiarity  of  an  old  acquaintance.  "My  dear 
Charles,"  cries  he,  shaking  my  friend's  hand,  "  where 
have  you  been  hiding  this  half  a  century  ?  Positively, 
I  had  fancied  you  had  gone  down  to  cultivate  matri- 
mony and  your  estate  in  the  country."  During  the 
reply,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  surveying  the  appear- 
ance of  our  new  companion.  His  hat  was  pinched  up 
with  peculiar  smartness :  his  looks  were  pale,  thin,  and 
sharp ;  round  his  neck  he  wore  a  broad  black  riband, 
and  in  his  bosom  a  buckle  studded  with  glass ;  his  coat 
was  trimmed  with  tarnished  twist ;  he  wore  by  his  side 
a  sword  with  a  black  hilt ;  and  his  stockings  of  silk, 
though  newly  washed,  were  grown  yellow  by  long  ser- 
vice. I  was  so  much  engaged  with  the  peculiarity  of 
his  dress,  that  I  attended  only  to  the  latter  part  of  my 
friend's  reply ;  in  which  he  complimented  Mr.  Tibbs 
on  the  taste  of  his  clothes  and  the  bloom  in  his  coun- 
tenance. u  Psha,  psha,  Charles,"  cries  the  figure,  "  no 
more  of  that  if  you  love  me  :  you  know  I  hate  flattery, 
on  my  soul  I  do ;  and  yet,  to  be  sure,  an  intimacy  with 
the  great  will  improve  one's  appearance,  and  a  course 
of  venison  will  fatten ;  and  yet,  faith,  I  despise  the 
great  as  much  as  you  do :  but  there  are  a  great  many 
damned  honest  fellows  among  them,  and  we  must  not 
quarrel  with  one  half  because  the  other  wants  breed- 
ing. If  they  were  all  such  as  my  Lord  Mudler,  one 


ESSAYS. 


425 


of  the  most  good-natured  creatures  that  ever  squeezed  a 

O  •*• 

lemon,  I  should  myself  be  among  the  number  of  their 
admirers.  I  was  yesterday  to  dine  at  the  Duchess  of 
Piccadilly's.  My  Lord  was  there.  Ned,  says  he  to  me, 
Ned,  says  he,  I  will  hold  gold  to  silver  I  can  tell  where 
you  were  poaching  last  night.  Poaching !  my  lord,  says 
I;  faith,  you  have  missed  already,  for  I  staid  at  home 
and  let  the  girls  poach  for  me.  That  is  my  way :  I  take 
a  fine  woman  as  some  animals  do  their  prey ;  stand  still, 
and  swoop,  they  fall  into  my  mouth." 

"  Ah,  Tibbs,  thou  art  a  happy  fellow,"  cried  my  com- 
panion, w.':th  looks  of  infinite  pity.  "I  hope  your  fortune 
is  as  much  improved  as  your  understanding  in  such  com- 
pany." " Improved !  "  replied  the  other,  "you  shall  know 
—  but  let  it  go  no  farther, —  a  great  secret  —  five  hun- 
dred a  year  to  begin  with. —  My  lord's  word  of  honor  for 
it  —  His  lordship  took  me  in  his  own  chariot  yesterday, 
and  we  had  a  tete-a-tete  dinner  in  the  country,  where  we 
talked  of  nothing  else."  "I  fancy  you  forgot,  sir,"  cried 
I,  "you  told  us  but  this  moment  of  your  dining  yesterday 
in  town  ?  "  "  Did  I  say  so  ?  "  replied  he  cooly.  "  To  be 
sure,  if  I  said  so,  it  was  so. —  Dined  in  town ;  egad,  now 
I  remember,  I  did  dine  in  town ;  but  I  dined  in  the  comr 
try,  too ;  for  you  must  know,  my  boys,  I  eat  two  dinners 
By  the  by,  I  am  grown  as  nice  as  the  devil  in  my  eating. 
I  will  tell  you  a  pleasant  affair  about  that :  we  were  a 
select  party  of  us  to  dine  at  Lady  Grogram's,  an  affected 
piece,  but  let  it  go  no  farther ;  a  secret :  Well,  says  I,  I 
will  hold  a  thousand  guineas,  and  say  Done  first,  that — 
but,  dear  Charles,  you  are  an  honest  creature ;  lend  me 
half-a-crown  for  a  minute  or  two,  or  so,  just  till  —  but 
36* 


426  ESSAYS. 

hark'ee,  ask  me  for  it  the  next  time  we  meet,  or  it  may 
be  twenty  to  one  but  I  forget  to  pay  you." 

When  he  left  us,  our  conversation  naturally  turned 
upon  so  extraordinary  a  character.  "  His  very  dress." 
cries  my  friend,  "is  not  less  extraordinary  than  his  con- 
duct. If  you  meet  him  this  day,  you  find  him  in  rags; 
if  the  next,  in  embroidery.  With  those  persons  of  dis- 
tinction, of  whom  he  talks  so  familiarly,  he  has  scarce  a 
coffee-house  acquaintance.  However,  both  for  the  inter- 
est of  society,  and,  perhaps,  for  his  own,  Heaven  has 
made  him  poor;  and  while  all  the  world  perceives  his 
wants,  he  fancies  them  concealed  from  every  eye.  An 
agreeable  companion,  because  he  understands  flattery; 
and  all  must  be  .pleased  with  the  first  part  of  his  conver- 
sation, though  all  are  sure  of  its  ending  with  a  demand 
on  their  purse.  While  his  youth  countenances  the  levity 
of  his  conduct,  he  may  thus  earn  a  precarious  subsist- 
ence; but,  when  age  comes  on,  the  gravity  of  which  is 
incompatible  with  buffoonery,  then  will  he  find  him  so  It' 
forsaken  by  all ;  condemned  in  the  decline  of  life  to  hang 
upon  some  rich  family  whom  he  once  despised,  there  to 
undergo  all  the  ingenuity  of  studied  contempt ;  to  be  em- 
ployed only  as  a  spy  upon  the  servants,  or  a  bugbear  to 
fright  children  into  duty/' 


BEAU  TIBBS  — CONTINUED. 

There  are  some  acquaintances  whom  it  is  no  easy 
matter  to  shake  off.  My  little  beau  yesterday  overtook 
me  again  in  one  of  the  public  walks,  and  slapping  me  on 


ESSAYS.  427 

the  shoulder,  saluted  me  with  an  air  of  the  most  per- 
fect familiarity.  His  dress  was  the  same  as  usual, 
except  that  he  had  more  powder  in  his  hair,  wore  a 
dirtier  shirt,  and  had  on  a  pair  of  Temple  spectacles, 
and  his  hat  under  his  arm. 

As  I  knew  him  to  be  a  harmless,  amusing  little  thing, 
I  could  not  return  his  smiles  with  any  degree  of  sever- 
ity ;  so  we  walked  forward  on  terms  of  the  utmost  in- 
timacy, and  in  a  few  minutes  discussed  all  the  usual 
topics  preliminary  to  particular  conversation. 

The  oddities  that  marked  his  character,  however,  soon 
began  to  appear ;  he  bowed  to  several  well-dressed  per- 
sons, who,  by  their  manner  of  returning  the  compliment, 
appeared  perfect  strangers.  At  intervals,  he  drew  out 
a  pocket-book,  seeming  to  take  memorandums  before  all 
the  company  with  much  importance  and  assiduity.  In 
this  manner  he  led  me  through  the  length  of  the  whole 
Mall,  fretting  at  his  absurdities,  and  fancying  myself 
laughed  at  as  well  as  him  by  every  spectator. 

When  we  were  got  to  the  end  of  our  procession, "Blast 
me,"  cries  he,  with'an  air  of  vivacity,  "I  never  saw  the 
Park  so  thin  in  my  life  before ;  there's  no  company  at  all 
to-day.  Not  a  single  face  to  be  seen."  "  No  company," 
interrupted  I  peevishly,  "no  company  where  there  is 
such  a  crowd !  Why,  man,  there  is  too  much.  What  are 
the  thousands  that  have  been  laughing  at  us  but  com- 
pany?" "Lord,  my  dear,"  returned  he  with  the  ut- 
most good-humor,  "you  seem  immensely  chagrined, but, 
blast  me,  when  the  world  laughs  at  .me,  I  laugh  at 
the  world,  and  so  we  are  even.  My  Lord  Trip,  Bill 
Squash,  the  Creolian,  and  I  sometimes  make  a  party  at 


428  ESSAYS. 

being  ridiculous ;  and  so  we  say  and  do  a  thousand 
things  for  the  joke's  sake.  But  I  see  you  are  grave ; 
and  if  you  are  for  a  fine  grave  sentimental  companion, 
you  shall  dine  with  my  wife  to-day  ;  I  must  insist  on  't ; 
I  '11  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  a  lady  of  as  elegant 
qualifications  as  any  in  nature  ;  she  was  bred,  but  that 's 
between  ourselves,  under  the  inspection  of  the  countess 
of  Shoreditch.  A  charming  body  of  voice !  But  no 
more  of  that — she  shall  give  us  a  song.  You  shall 
see  my  little  girl,  too,  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia 
Tibbs,  a  sweet  pretty  creature ;  I  design  her  for  my 
Lord  Drumstick's  eldest  son ;  but  that 's  in  friendship, 
let  it  go  no  farther ;  she 's  but  six  years  old,  and  yet 
she  walks  a  minuet,  and  plays  on  the  guitar,  immense- 
ly, already.  1  intend  she  shall  be  as  perfect  as  possi- 
ble in  every  acomplishment.  In  the  first  place  I  '11 
make  her  a  scholar ;  I  '11  teach  her  Greek  myself,  and 
I  intend  to  learn  that  language  purposely  to  instruct 
her,  but  let  that  be  a  secret." 

Thus  saying,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  took 
me  by  the '  arm  and  hauled  me  along.  We  passed 
through  many  dark  alleys,  and  winding  ways;  for, 
from  some  motives  to  me  unknown,  he  seemed  to  have 
a  particular  aversion  to  every  frequented  street;  at 
last,  however,  we  got  to  the  door  of  a  dismal-looking 
house  in  the  outlets  of  the  town,  where  he  informed 
me  he  chose  to  reside  for  the  benefit  of  the  air. 

We  entered  the  lower  door,  which  seemed  ever  to 
lie  most  hospitably  open  ;  and  I  began  to  ascend  an  old 
and  creaking  staircase ;  when,  as  he  mounted  to  show 
me  the  way,  he  demanded,  whether  I  delighted  in 
prospects ;  to  which  answering  in  the  affirmative, 


ESSAYS.  429 

"Then,"  said  he,  "I  shall  show  you  one  of  the  most 
charming  out  of  my  windows ;  we  shall  see  the  ships 
sailing,  and  the  whole  country  for  twenty  miles  round, 
tip  top,  quite  high.  My  Lord  Swamp  would  give  ten 
thousand  guineas  for  such  a  one ;  but  as  I  sometimes 
pleasantly  tell  him,  I  always  love  to  keep  my  pros- 
pects at  home,  that  my  friends  may  come  to  see  me 
the  oftener." 

By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs 
would  permit  us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what  he  was 
facetiously  pleased  to  call  the  first  floor  down  the 
chimney ;  and,  knocking  at  the  door,  a  voice  with  a 
Scotch  accent  from  within  demanded,  "  Wha  's  there  ?  " 
My  conductor  answered  that  it  was  he.  But  this  not 
satisfying  the  querist,  the  voice  again  repeated  the  de- 
mand ;  to  which  he  answered  louder  than  before  ;  and 
now  the  door  was  opened  by  an  old  maid-servant  with 
cautious  reluctance. 

When  we  were  got  in,  he  welcomed  me  to  his  house 
with  great  ceremony,  and  turning  to  the  old  woman, 
asked  where  her  lady  was.  "  Good  troth,"  replied 
she,  in  the  northern  dialect,  "  she  's  washing  your  twa 
shirts  at  the  next  door,  because  they  have  taken  an 
oath  against  lending  out  the  tub  any  longer."  "  My 
two  shirts ! "  cries  he,  in  a  tone  that  faltered  with  con- 
fusion, "  what  does  the  idiot  mean  ?  " — "  I  ken  what  I 
mean  well  enough,"  replied  the  other ;  "  she  's  wash- 
ing your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because " 

"  Fire  and  fury,  no  more  of  thy  stupid  explanations,"  he 
cried.  "  Go  and  inform  her  we  have  got  company. 
Were  that  Scotch  hag,"  continued  he,  turning  to  me, 


ESSAYS. 

"  to  be  forever  in  my  family,  she  would  never  learn 
politeness,  nor  forget  that  absurd,  poisonous  accent  of 
hers,  or  testify  the  smallest  specimen  of  breeding  or 
high  life ;  and  yet  it  is  very  surprising,  too,  as  I  had 
her  from  a  parliament  man,  a  friend  of  mine,  from  the 
Highlands,  one  of  the  politest  men  in  the  world ;  but 
that 's  a  secret." 

We  waited  some  time  for  Mrs.  Tibb's  arrival,  during 
which  interval  I  had  a  full  opportunity  of  surveying 
the  chamber  and  all  its  furniture ;  which  consisted  of 
four  chairs  with  old  wrought  bottoms,  that  he  assured 
me  were  his  wife's  embroidery ;  a  square  table  that 
had  been  once  japanned ;  a  cradle  in  one  corner,  a 
lumber-cabinet  in  the  other;  a  broken  shepherdess, 
and  a  mandarine  without  a  head,  were  stuck  over  the 
chimney  ;  and  round  the  walls  several  paltry  unframed 
pictures,  which  he  observed  were  all  of  his  own  draw- 
ing. "  What  do  you  think,  sir,  of  that  head  in  the 
corner,  done  in  the  manner  of  Grisoni  ?  There  's  the 
true  keeping  in  it ;  it 's  my  own  face ;  and,  though 
there  happens  to  be  no  likeness,  a  countess  offered  me 
a  hundred  for  its  fellow :  I  refused  her,  for,  hang  it, 
that  would  be  mechanical,  you  know." 

The  wife  at  last  made  her  appearance ;  at  once  a 
slattern  and  coquette ;  much  emaciated,  but  still  carry- 
ing the  remains  of  beauty.  She  made  twenty  apolo- 
gies for  being  seen  in  such  an  odious  dishabille,  but 
hoped  to  be  excused,  as  she  had  stayed  out  all  night  at 
Vauxhall  Gardens  with  the  countess,  who  was  exces- 
sively fond  of  the  horns,  "And,  indeed,  my  dear,  ad- 
ded she,  turning  to  her  husband,  "  his  lordship  drank 
your  health  in  a  bumper."  »•  Poor  Jack  !  "  cries  he, 
"  a  dear,  good-natured  creature,  I  know  he  loves  me ; 


ESSAYS.  431 

but  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  have  given  orders  for  din- 
ner ;  you  need  make  no  great  preparations  neither, 
there  are  but  three  of  us  ;  something  elegant,  and  lit- 
tle will  do  ;  a  turbot,  an  ortolan,  or  a "  "  Or  what 

do  you  think,  my  dear,"  interrupts  the  wife,  "  of  a  nice 
pretty  bit  of  ox-cheek,  piping  hot,  and  dressed  with  a 
little  of  my  own  sauce  ?  "  "  The  very  thing,"  replies 
he ;  "  it  will  eat  best  with  some  smart  bottled  beer ; 
but  be  sure  to  let 's  have  the  sauce  his  Grace  was  so 
fond  of.  I  hate  your  immense  loads  of  meat ;  that  is 
country  all  over ;  extreme  disgusting  to  those  who  are 
in  the  least  acquainted  with  high  life." 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  began  to  abate,  and  my 
appetite  to  increase  ;  the  company  of  fools  may  at  first 
make  us  smile,  but  at  last  never  fails  of  rendering  us 
melancholy.  I  therefore  pretended  to  recollet  a  prior 
engagement,  and  after  having  shown  my  respects  to  the 
house,  by  giving  the  old  servant  a  piece  of  money  at 
the  door,  I  took  my  leave ;  Mr.  Tibbs  assuring  me, 
that  dinner,  if  I  stayed,  would  be  ready  at  least  in  less 
than  two  hours. 


ON   THE   IRRESOLUTION    OF   YOUTH. 

As  it  has  been  observed  that  few  are  better  qualified 
to  give  others  advice,  than  those  who  have  taken  the 
least  of  it  themselves ;  so  in  this  respect  I  find  myself 
perfectly  authorized  to  offer  mine  ;  and  must  take  leave 
to  throw  together  a  few  observations  upon  that  part  of 
a  young  man's  conduct,  on  his  entering  into  life,  as  it 
is  called. 

The  most  usual  way  among  young  men  who  have  no 
resolution  of  their  own,  is  first  to  ask  one  friend's  ad' 


432  ESSAYS. 

vice,  and  follow  it  for  some  time ;  than  to  ask  advice 
of  another,  and  turn  to  that ;  so  of  a  third,  still  un- 
steady, always  changing.  However,  every  change  of 
this  nature  is  for  the  worse ;  people  may  tell  you  of 
your  being  unfit  for  some  peculiar  occupations  in  life ; 
but  heed  them  not;  whatever  employment  you  fol- 
low with  perseverance  and  assiduity,  will  be  found  fit 
for  you ;  it  will  be  your  support  in  youth,  and  com- 
fort in  age.  In  learning  the  useful  part  of  every  pro- 
fession, very  moderate  abilities  will  suffice  :  great  abili- 
ties are  generally  obnoxious  to  the  possessors.  Life 
has  been  compared  to  a  race  ;  but  the  allusion  still  im- 
proves by  observing,  that  the  most  swift  are  ever  the 
most  apt  to  stray  from  the  course. 

To  know  one  profession  only,  is  enough  for  one  man 
to  know ;  and  this,  whatever  the  professors  may  tell  you 
to  the  contrary,  is  soon  learned.  Be  contented,  there- 
fore, with  one  good  employment ;  for  if  you  understand 
two  at  a  time,  people  will  give  you  business  in  neither. 

A  conjurer  and  a  tailor  once  happened  to  converse 
together.  "Alas  !  "  cries  the  tailor,  "  what  an  unhappy 
poor  creature  am  I !  If  people  take  it  into  their  heads 
to  live  without  clothes,  I  am  undone ;  I  have  no  other 
trade  to  have  recourse  to."  "  Indeed,  friend,  I  pity  you 
sincerely,"  replies  the  conjurer ;  "  but,  thank  Heaven, 
things  are  not  quite  so  bad  with  me :  for,  if  one  trick 
should  fail,  I  have  a  hundred  tricks  more  for  them  yet. 
However,  if  at  any  time  you  are  reduced  to  beggary,  ap- 
ply to  me,  and  I  will  relieve  you."  A  famine  overspread 
the  land ;  the  tailor  made  a  shift  to  live,  because  his  cus- 
tomers could  not  be  without  clothes  ;  but  the  poor  con- 
jur*r,  with  all  his  hundred  tricks,  could  find  none  that 


ESSAYS.  433 

had  money  to  throw  away  :  it  was  in  vain  that  he  prom- 
ised to  eat  fire,  or  to  vomit  pins ;  no  single  creature 
would  relieve  him,  till  he  was  at  last  obliged  to  beg  from 
the  very  tailor  whose  calling  he  had  formerly  despised. 

There  are  no  obstructions  more  fatal  to  fortune  than 
pride  and  resentment.  If  you  must  resent  injuries  at  all, 
at  least  suppress  your  indignation  till  you  become  rich, 
and  then  show  away.  The  resentment  of  a  poor  man  is 
like  the  efforts  of  a  harmless  insect  to  sting ;  it  may  get 
him  crushed,  but  cannot  defend  him.  Who  values  that 
anger  which  is  consumed  only  in  empty  menaces  ? 

Once  upon  a  time  a  goose  fed  its  young  by  a  pond-side : 
and  a  goose,  in  such  circumstances,  is  always  extremely 
proud,  and  excessively  punctilious.  If  any  other  animal, 
without  the  least  design  to  offend,  happened  to  pass  that 
way,  the  goose  was  immediately  at  it.  The  pond,  she 
said,  was  hers,  and  she  would  maintain  her  right  in  it, 
and  support  her  honor,  while  she  had  a  bill  to  hiss,  or 
a  wing  to  flutter.  In  this  manner  she  drove  away  ducks, 
pigs,  and  chickens  ;  nay,  even  the  insidious  cat  was  seen 
to  scamper.  A  lounging  mastiff,  however,  happened  to 
pass  by,  and  thought  it  no  harm  if  he  should  lap  a  lit- 
tle of  the  water,  as  he  was  thirsty.  The  guardian  goose 
flew  at  him  like  a  fury,  pecked  at  him  with  her  beak, 
and  slapped  him  with  her  feathers.  The  dog  grew  ang- 
ry, and  had  twenty  times  a  mind  to  give  her  a  sly  snap ; 
but  suppressing  his  indignation,  because  his  master  was 
aigh,  "A  pox  take  thee,"  cries  he,  "for  a  fool;  sure, 
:hose  who  have  neither  strength  nor  weapons  to  fight, 
it  least  should  be  civil."  So  saying,  he  went  forward 
X)  the  pond,  quenched  his  thirst,  in  spite  of  the  goose, 
aid  followed  his  master.  37 


434  ESSAYS. 

Another  obstruction  to  the  fortune  of  youth  is,  that 
while  they  are  willing  to  take  offence  from  none,  they 
are  also  equally  desirous  of  giving  nobody  offence.  From 
hence  they  endeavor  to  please  all,  comply  with  every 
request,  and  attempt  to  suit  themselves  to  every  com- 
pany ;  have  no  will  of  their  own,  but,  like  wax,  catch 
every  contiguous  impression.  By  thus  attempting  to  give 
universal  satisfaction,  they  at  last  find  themselves  miser- 
ably disappointed :  to  bring  the  generality  of  admirers 
on  our  side,  it  is  sufficient  to  attempt  pleasing  a  very  few. 

A  painter  of  eminence  was  once  resolved  to  finish  a 
piece  which  should  please  the  whole  world.  When, 
therefore,  he  had  drawn  a  picture,  in  which  his  utmost 
skill  was  exhausted,  it  was  exposed  in  the  public  mar- 
ket-place, with  directions  at  the  bottom  for  every  spec- 
tator to  mark  with  a  brush,  that  lay  by,  every  limb 
and  feature  which  seemed  erroneous.  The  spectators 
came,  and  in  the  general  applauded ;  but  each,  willing 
to  show  his  talent  at  criticism,  stigmatized  whatever  he 
thought  proper.  At  evening,  when  the  painter  came, 
he  was  mortified  to  find  the  picture  one  universal  blot, 
not  a  single  stroke  that  had  not  the  marks  of  disappro- 
bation. Not  satisfied  with  this  trial,  the  next  day  he 
was  resolved  to  try  them  in  a  different  manner:  and 
exposing  his  picture  as  before,  desired  that  every  spec- 
tator would  mark  those  beauties  he  approved  or  ad- 
mired. The  people  complied,  and  the  artist  returning, 
found  his  picture  covered  with  the  marks  of  beauty ; 
every  stroke  that  had  been  yesterday  condemned,  now 
received  the  character  of  approbation.  "Well,"  cries 
the  painter,  "  I  now  find  that  the  best  way  to  please 
all  the  world,  is  to  attempt  pleasing  one  half  of  it." 


ESSAYS.  43A 


ON  MAD  DOGS. 

INDULGENT  nature  seems  to  have  exempted  this  is- 
land from  many  of  those  epidemic  evils  which  are  so 
fatal  in  other  parts  of  the  world.  A  want  of  rain  for  a 
few  days  beyond  the  expected  season  in  some  parts  of 
the  globe  spreads  famine,  desolation,  and  terror  over 
the  whole  country ;  but  in  this  fortunate  island  of  Bri- 
tain, the  inhabitant  courts  health  in  every  breeze,  and 
the  husbandman  ever  sows  in  joyful  expectation. 

But,  though  the  nation  be  exempt  from  real  evils,  it 
is  not  more  happy  on  this  account  than  others.  The 
people  are  afflicted,  it  is  true,  with  neither  famine  nor 
pestilence ;  but,  then,  there  is  a  disorder  peculiar  to  the 
country,  which  every  season  makes  strange  ravages 
among  them ;  it  spreads  with  pestilential  rapidity,  and 
infects  almost  every  rank  of  people ;  what  is  still  more 
strange,  the  natives  have  no  name  for  this  peculiar 
malady,  though  well  known  to  foreign  physicians  by 
the  appellation  of  Epidemic  Terror.  A  season  is  never 
known  to  pass  in  which  the  people  are  not  visited  by  this 
cruel  calamity  in  one  shape  or  another,  seemingly 
different  though  ever  the  same.  One  year  it  issues  from 
a  baker's  shop  in  the  shape  of  a  six-penny  loaf,  the  next 
it  takes  the  appearance  of  a  comet  with  a  fiery  tail,  the 
third  it  threatens  like  a  flat-bottomed  boat  and  the 
fourth  it  carries  consternation  in  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog. 
The  people,  when  once  infected,  lose  their  relish  for 
happiness,  saunter  about  with  looks  of  despondence, 
ask  after  the  calamities  of  the  day,  and  receive  no  com- 
fort but  in  heightening  each  other's  distress.  It  is  in- 


436  ESSAYS. 

significant  how  remote  or  near,  how  weak  or  powerful 
the  object  of  terror  may  be,  when  once  they  resolve  to 
fright  and  be  frighted ;  the  merest  trifles  sow  conster- 
nation and  dismay ;  each  proportions  his  fears,  not  to 
the  object,  but  to  the  dread  he  discovers  in  the  coun- 
tenance of  others ;  for,  when  once  the  fermentation  is 
begun,  it  goes  on  of  itself,  though  the  original  cause  be 
discontinued  which  at  first  set  it  in  motion. 

A  dread  of  mad  dogs  is  the  epidemic  terror  which 
now  prevails,  and  the  whole  nation  is  at  present  actual- 
ly groaning  under  the  malignity  of  its  influence.  The 
people  sally  from  their  houses  with  that  circumspection 
which  is  prudent  in  such  as  expect  a  mad  dog  at  every 
turning.  The  physician  publishes  his  prescription,  the 
beadle  prepares  his  halter,  and  a  few  of  unusual  brav- 
ery arm  themselves  with  boots  and  buff  gloves,  in  or- 
der to  face  the  enemy,  if  he  should  offer  to  attack  them. 
In  short,  the  whole  people  stand  bravely  upon  their 
defence,  and  seem,  by  their  present  spirit,  to  show  a 
resolution  of  being  tamely  bit  by  mad  dogs  no  longer. 

Their  manner  of  knowing  whether  a  dog  be  mad  or 
no,  somewhat  resembles  the  ancient  gothic  custom  of 
trying  witches.  The  old  woman  suspected  was  tied 
hand  and  foot,  and  thrcwn  into  the  water.  If  she  swam, 
then  she  was  instantly  carried  off  to  be  burnt  for  a 
witch ;  if  she  sunk,  then  indeed  she  was  acquitted  of 
the  charge,  but  drowned  in  the  experiment.  In  the 
same  manner  a  crowd  gather  round  a  dog  suspected 
of  madness,  and  they  begin  by  teasing  the  devoted  ani- 
mal on  every  side.  If  he  attempts  to  stand  on  the  de- 
fensive, and  bite,  then  he  is  unanimously  found  guilty, 


ESSAYS.  437 

for  •  a  mad  dog  always  snaps  at  everything."  If,  on 
the  contrary,  he  strives  to  escape  by  running  away, 
then  he  can  expect  no  compassion,  for  "  mad  dogs  al- 
ways run  straight  forward  before  them." 

It  is  pleasant  enough  for  a  neutral  being  like  me, 
>7ho  have  no  share  in  those  ideal  calamities,  to  mark 
the  stages  of  this  national  disease.  The  terror  at  first 
feebly  enters  with  a  disregarded  story  of  a  little  dog 
that  had  gone  through  a  neighboring  village,  which 
was  thought  to  be  mad  by  several  who  had  seen  him. 
The  next  account  comes,  that  a  mastiff  ran  through  a 
certain  town,  and  bit  five  geese,  which  immediately 
ran  mad,  foamed  at  the  bill,  and  died  in  great  agonies 
soon  after.  Then  comes  an  affecting  story  of  a  little 
boy  bit  in  the  leg,  and  gone  down  to  be  dipped  in  the 
salt  water.  When  the  people  have  sufficiently  shud- 
dered at  that,  they  are  next  congealed  with  a  frightful 
account  of  a  man  who  was  said  lately  to  have  died 
from  a  bite  he  had  received  some  years  before.  This 
relation  only  prepares  the  way  for  another,  still  more 
hideous ;  as  how  the  master  of  a  family,  with  seven 
small  children,  were  all  bit  by  a  mad  lap-dog  ;  and  how 
the  poor  father  first  perceived  the  infection  by  calling 
for  a  draught  of  water,  where  he  saw  the  lap-dog 
swimming  in  the  cup. 

When  epidemic  terror  is  thus  oncQ  excited,  every 
morning  comes  loaded  with  some  new  disaster :  as  io 
stories  of  ghosts  each  loves  to  hear  the  account,  though 
it  only  serves  to  make  him  uneasy  ;  so  here,  each  lis- 
tens with  eagerness,  and  adds  to  the  tidings  with  new 
circumstances  of  peculiar  horror.  A  lady  for  instance, 
37* 


438  ESSAYS. 

in  the  country,  of  very  weak  nerves,  has  been  frighted 
by  the  barking  of  a  dog ;  and  this,  alas  !  too  frequently 
happens.  The  story  soon  is  improved,  and  spreads,  that 
a  mad  dog  had  frighted  a  lady  of  distinction.  These  cir- 
cumstances begin  tq  grow  terrible  before  they  have 
reached  the  neighboring  village ;  and  there  the  report 
is,  that  a  lady  of  quality  was  bit  by  a  mad  mastiff.  This 
account  every  moment  gathers  new  strength,  and  grows 
more  dismal  as  it  approaches  the  capital ;  and  by  the 
time  it  has  arrived  in  town,  the  lady  is  described  with 
wild  eyes,  foaming  mouth,  running  mad  upon  all  fours, 
barking  like  a  dog,  biting  her  servants,  and  at  last 
smothered  between  two.  beds  by  the  advice  of  her  doc- 
tors ;  while  the  mad  mastiff  is,  in  the  mean  time,  rang- 
ing the  whole  country  over,  slavering  at  the  mouth, 
and  seeking  whom  he  may  devour. 

My  landlady,  a  good-natured  woman,  but  a  little 
credulous,  waked  me  some  mornings  ago  before  .the 
iiMiul  hour,  with  horror  and  astonishment  in  her  looks. 
She  desired  me,  if  I  had  any  regard  for  my  safety,  to 
keep  within  ;  for  a  few  days  ago,  so  dismal  an  accident 
had  happened,  as  to  put  all  the  world  upon  their  guard. 
A  mad  dog  down -in  the  country,  she  assured  me,  had 
bit  a  farmer,  who  soon  becoming  mad,  ran  into  his  own 
yard  and  bit  a  fine  brindled  cow ;  the  cow  quickly  be- 
came as  mad  as  jthe  man,  began  to  foam  at  the  mouth, 
and  raising  herself  up,  walked  about  on  her  hind  legs, 
sometimes  barking  like  a  dog,  and  sometimes  attempting 
to  talk  like  the  farmer.  Upon  examining  the  grounds 
of  this  story,  I  found  my  landlady  had  it  from  one 
neighbor,  who  had  it  from  another  neighbor,  who  heard 
it  from  very  good  authority. 


ESSAYS.  439 

Were  most  stories  of  this  nature  well  examined,  it 
would  be  found  that  numbers  cf  such  as  have  been  said 
to  suffer  are  in  no  way  injured ;  and  that  of  those  who 
have  been  actually  bitten,  not  one  in  a  hundred  was  bit 
by  a  mad  dog.  Such  accounts,  in  general,  therefore,  only 
serve  to  make  the  people  miserable  by  false  terrors ; 
and  sometimes  fright  the  patient  into  actual  frenzy,  by 
creating  those  very  symptoms  they  pretended  to  deplore. 

But  even  allowing  three  or  four  to  die  in  a  season  of 
this  terrible  death  (and  four  is  probably  too  large  a  con- 
cession), yet  still  it  is  not  considered  how  many  are  pre- 
served in  their  health  and  in  their  property  by  this  de- 
voted animal's  services.  The  midnight  robber  is  kept  at  a 
distance ;  the  insidious  thief  is  often  detected ;  the  health- 
ful chase  repairs  many  a  worn  constitution  ;  and  the  poor 
man  finds  in  his  dog  a  willing  assistant,  eager  to  lessen 
his  toil,  and  content  with  the  smallest  retribution. 

"A  dog,"  says  one  of  the  English  poets,  "  is  an  honest 
creature,  and  I  am  a  friend  to  dogs."  Of  all  the  beasts 
that  graze  the  lawn,  or  hunt  the  forest,  a  dog  is  the  only 
animal  that,  leaving  his  fellows,  attempts  to  cultivate  the 
friendship  of  man :  to  man  he  looks,  in  all  the  necessities, 
with  speaking  eye  for  assistance  ;  exerts  for  him  all  the 
little  service  in  his  power  with  cheerfulness  and  pleas- 
ure ;  for  him  bears  famine  and  fatigue  with  patience  and 
resignation  ;  no  injuries  can  abate  his  fidelity,  no  distress 
induce  him  to  forsake  his  benefactor ;  studious  to  please, 
and  fearing  to  offend,  he  is  still  an  humble,  steadfast  de- 
pendant ;  and  in  him  alone  fawning  is  not  flattery.  How 
unkind  then  to  torture  this  faithful  creature,  who  has 
left  the  forest  to  claim  the  protection  of  man.  How  un- 
grateful a  return  to  the  trusty  animal  for  all  its  services. 


440  ESSAYS. 

ON  THE  INCREASED  LOVE  OF  LIFE  WITH  AGE. 

AGE,  that  lessens  the  enjoyment  of  life,  increases 
our  desire  of  living.  Those  dangers,  which,  in  the  vigor 
of  youth,  we  had  learned  to  despise,  assume  new  ter- 
rors as  we  grow  old.  Our  caution  increasing  as  our 
years  increase,  fear  becomes  at  last  the  prevailing  pas- 
sion of  the  mind,  and  the  small  remainder  of  life  is 
taken  up  in  useless  efforts  to  keep  off  our  end,  or  pro- 
vide for  a  continued  existence. 

Strange  contradiction  in  our  nature,  and  to  which 
even  the  wise  are  liable !  If  I  should  judge  of  that 
part  of  life  which  lies  before  me  by  that  which  I  have 
already  seen,  the  prospect  is  hideous.  Experience  tells 
me,  that  my  past  enjoyments  have  brought  no  real  felici- 
ty ;  and  sensation  assures  me,  that  those  I  have  felt  are 
stronger  than  those  which  are  yet  to  come.  Yet  expe- 
rience and  sensation  in  vain  persuade  ;  hope,  more  pow- 
erful than  either,  dresses  out  the  distant  prospect  in 
fancied  beauty ;  some  happiness,  in  long  perspective, 
still  beckons  me  to  pursue  ;  and,  like  a  losing  gamester, 
every  new  disappointment  increases  my  ardor  to  con- 
tinue the  game. 

Whence  then  is  this  increased  love  of  life,  which 
grows  upon  us  with  our  years !  Whence  comes  it,  that 
we  thus  make  greater  efforts  to  preserve  our  existence, 
at  a  period  when  it  becomes  scarce  worth  the  keeping ! 
Is  it  that  nature,  attentive  to  the  preservation  of  man- 
kind, increases  our  wishes  to  live,  while  she  lessens 
our  enjoyments  ;  and,  as  she  robs  the  senses  of  every 
pleasure,  equips  imagination  in  the  spoil  ?  Life  would 
be  insupportable  to  an  old  man,  who,  loaded  with  in- 


ESSAYS.  441 

firmities,  feared  death  no  more  than  when  in  the  vigor 
of  manhood :  the  numberless  calamities  of  decaying 
nature,  and  the  consciousness  of  surviving  every  pleas- 
ure, would  at  once  induce  him,  wit'h  his  own  hand, 
to  terminate  the  scene  of  misery ;  but  happily  the  con- 
tempt of  death  forsakes  him  at  a  time  when  it  could 
only  be  prejudicial ;  and  life  acquires,  an  imaginary 
value  in  proportion  as  its  real  value  is  no  more. 

Our  attachment  to  every  object  around  us  increases, 
in  general,  from  the  length  of  our  acquaintance  with 
it.  "  I  would  not  choose,"  says  a  French  philosopher, 
"  to  see  an  old  post  pulled  up  with  which  I  had  been 
long  acquainted."  A  mind  long  habituated  to  a  certain 
set  of  objects,  insensibly  becomes  fond  of  seeing  them  ; 
visits  them  from  habit,  and  parts  from  them  with  re- 
luctance :  from-  hence  proceeds  the  avarice  of  the  old 
in  every  kind  of  possession ;  they  love  the  world  and 
all  that  it  produces ;  they  love  life  and  all  its  advan- 
tages ;  not  because  it  gives  them  pleasure,  but  because 
they  have  known  it  long. 

Chinvang  the  Chaste,  ascending  the  throne  of  China, 
commanded  that  all  who  were  unjustly  detained  in  pri- 
son, during  the  preceding  reigns,  should  be  set  free, 
Among  the  number  who  came  to  thank  their  deliverer 
on  this  occasion,  there  appeared  a  majestic  old  man, 
who,  falling  at  the  emperor's  feet,  addressed  him  as 
follows :  "  Great  father  of  China,  behold  a  wretch, 
now  eighty-five  years  old,  who  was  shut  up  in  a  dun- 
geon at  the  age  of  twenty-two.  I  was  imprisoned, 
though  a  stranger  to  crime,  or  without  being  even  con- 
fronted by  my  accusers.  I  have  now  lived  in  solitude 
jmd  darkness  for  more  than  sixty  years,  and  am  grown 


442  ESSAYS. 

familiar  with  distress.  As  yet  dazzled  with  the  splen- 
dor of  that  sun  to  which  you  have  restored  me,  I  have 
been  wandering  the  streets  to  find  out  some  friend  that 
would  assist,  or  relieve,  or  remember  me ;  but  my 
friends,  my  family,  and  relations,  are  all  dead,  and  I 
am  forgotten.  Permit  me  then,  O  Chinvang,  to  wear, 
out  the  wretched  remains  of  life  in  my  former  prison ; 
the  walls  of  my  dungeon  are  to  me  more  pleasing  than 
the  most  splendid  palace :  I  have  not  long  to  live,  and 
shall  be  unhappy  except  I  spend  the  rest  of  my  days 
where  my  youth  was  passed,  in  that  prison  from 
whence  you  were  pleased  to  release  me." 

The  old  man's  passion  for  confinement  is  similar  to 
that  we  all  have  for  life.  We  are  habituated  to  the 
prison  ;  we  look  round  with  discontent,-  are  displeased 
with  the  abode,  and  yet  the  length  of  our  captivity  on- 
ly increases  our  fondness  for  the  cell.  The  trees  we 
have  planted,  the  houses  we  have  built,  or  the  posteri- 
ty we  have  begotten,  all  serve  to  bind  us  closer  to  the 
earth,  and  embitter  our  parting.  Life  sues  the  young 
like  a  new  acquaintance ;  the  companion,  as  yet  unex- 
hausted, is  at  once  instructive  and  amusing ;  its  com- 
pany pleases ;  yet,  for  all  this,  it  is  but  little  regarded. 
To  us,  who  are  declined  in  years,  life  appears  like  an 
old  friend ;  its  jests  have  been  anticipated  in  former  con- 
versation ;  it  has  no  new  story  to  make  us  smile,  no  new 
improvement  with  which  to  surprise ;  yet  still  we  love  it ; 
destitute  of  every  enjoyment,  still  we  love  it ;  husband 
the  wasting  treasure  with  increasing  frugality,  and  feel 
all  the  poignancy  of  anguish  in  the  fatal  separation. 

Sir  Philip  Mordaunt  was  young,  beautiful,  sincere, 


ESSAYS.  443 

brave — an  Englishman.  He  had  a  complete  fortune  of 
his  own,  and  the  love  of  the  king  his  master,  which  was 
equivalent  to  riches.  Life  opened  all  her  treasures  be  • 
fore  him,  and  promised  a  long  succession  of  future  hap- 
piness. He  came,  tasted  of  the  entertainment,  but  was 
disgusted  even  at  the  beginning.  He  professed  an  aver- 
sion to  living ;  was  tired  of  walking  round  the  same  cir- 
cle ;  had  tried  every  enjoyment,  and  found  them  all 
grow  weaker  at  every  repetition.  "  If  life  be,  in  youth, 
so  displeasing,"  cried  he  to  himself,  "  what  will  it  ap- 
pear when  age  comes  on  ?  If  it  be  at  present  indiffer- 
ent, sure  it  will  then  be  execrable."  This  thought  im- 
bittered  every  reflection ;  till,  at  last,  with  all  the  se- 
renity of  perverted  reason,  he  ended  the  debate  with  a 
pistol !  Had  this  self-deluded  man  been  apprised,  that 
existence  grows  more  desirable  to  us  the  longer  we  ex- 
ist, he  would  then  have  faced  old  age  without  shrink- 
ing ;  he  would  have  boldly  dared  to  live ;  and  serve 
that  society,  by  his  future  assiduity,  which  he  basdly 
injured  by  his  desertion. 


ON  THE  LADIES'  PASSION  FOR  LEVELLING  ALL 
DISTINCTION   OF   DRESS. 

FOREIGNERS  observe  that  there  are  no  ladies  in  the 
world  more  beautiful,  or  more  ill-dressed,  than  those  of 
England.  Our  country-women  have  been  compared  to 
those  pictures,  where  the  face  is  the  work  of  a  Raphael, 
but  the  draperies  thrown  out  by  some  empty  pretender, 
destitute  of  taste,  and  entirely  unacquainted  with  design. 

If  I  were  a  poet,  I  might  observe,  on  this  occasion 
that  so  much  beauty,  set  off  with  all  the  advantages  of 


444  ESSAYS. 

dress,  would  be  too  powerful  an  antagonist  for  the  op- 
posite sex ;  and  therefore  it  was  wisely  ordered  that 
our  ladies  should  want  taste,  lest  their  admirers  should 
entirely  want  reason. 

But  to  confess  a  truth,  I  do  not  find  they  have  great- 
er aversion  to  fine  clothes  than  the  women  of  any  other 
country  whatsoever.  I  cannot  fancy  that  a  shopkeeper's 
wife  in  Cheapside  has  a  greater  tenderness  for  the  for- 
tune of  her  husband,  than  a  citizen's  wife  in  Paris ;  or 
that  miss  in  a  boarding-school  is  more  an  economist  in 
dress  than  mademoiselle  in  a  nunnery. 

Although  Paris  may  be  accounted  the  soil  in  which 
almost  every  fashion  takes  its  rise,  its  influence  is  never 
so  general  there  as  with  us.  They  study  there  the  hap- 
py method  of  uniting  grace  and  fashion,  and  never  ex- 
cuse a  woman  for  being  awkwardly  dressed,  by  saying 
her  clothes  are  in  the  mode.  A  French  woman  is  a  per- 
fect architect  in  dress ;  she  never,  with  Gothic  ignor- 
ance, mixes  the  orders  ;  she  never  tricks  out  a  squabby 
Doric  shape  with  Corinthian  finery  ;  or,  to  speak  with- 
out metaphor,  she  conforms  to  general  fashion  only 
when  it  happens  not  to  be  repugnant  to  private  beauty. 

The  English  ladies,  on  the  contrary,  seem  to  have  no 
other  standard  of  grace  but  the  run  of  the  town.  If 
fashion  gives  the  word,  every  distinction  of  beauty, 
complexion,  or  stature,  ceases.  Sweeping  trains,  Prus- 
sian bonnets,  and  trollopees,  as  like  each  other  as  if  cut 
from  the  same  piece,  level  all  to  one  standard.  The 
Mall,  the  gardens,  and  playhouses,  are  filled  with  ladies 
in  uniform  ;  and  their  whole  appearance  shows  as  little 
variety  of  taste  as  if  their  clothes  were  bespoke  by  th* 


ESSAYS.  445 

colonel  of  a  marching  regiment,  or  fancied  by  the  art- 
ist who  dresses  the  three  battalions  of  guards. 

But  not  only  the  ladies  of  every  shape  and  complex- 
ion, but  of  every  age,  too,  are  possessed  of  this  unaccount- 
able passion  for  levelling  all  distinction  in  dress.  The 
lady  of  no  quality  travels  first  behind  the  lady  of  some 
quality  ;  and  a  woman  of  sixty  is  as  gaudy  as  her  grand- 
daughter. A  friend  of  mine,  a  good-natured  old  man, 
amused  me  the  other  day  with  an  account  of  his  journey 
to  the  Mall.  It  seems,  in  his  walk  thither,  he,  for  some 
time,  followed  a  lady,who,  as  he  thought,by  her  dress, was 
a  girl  of  fifteen.  It  was  airy,  elegant,  and  youthful.  My 
old  friend  had  called  up  all  his  poetry  on  this  occasion, 
and  fancied  twenty  Cupids  prepared  for  execution  in 
every  folding  of  her  white  negligee.  He  had  prepared 
his  imagination  for  an  angel's  face ;  but  what  was  his 
mortification  to  find  that  the  imaginary  goddess  was  no 
other  than  his  cousin  Hannah,  some  years  older  than  him- 
self. But  to  give  it  in  his  own  words  :  "After  the  trans- 
ports of  our  first  salute,"  said  he,  "  were  over,  I  could 
not  avoid  running  my  eye  over  her  whole  appearance. 
Her  gown  was  of  cambric,  cut  short  before,  in  order  to 
discover  a  high-heeled  shoe,  which  was  buckled  almost 
at  the  toe.  Her  cap  consisted  of  a  few  bits  of  cambric- 
and  flowers  of  painted  paper  stuck  on  one  side  of  her 
head.  Her  bosom,  that  had  felt  no  hand  but  the  hand 
of  time  these  twenty  years,  rose,  suing  to  be  pressed. 
I  could,  indeed,  have  wished  her  more  than  a  handker- 
chief of  Paris  net  to  shade  her  beauties  ;  for,  as  Tasso 
says  of  the  rose-bud,  '  Quarito  si  nostra  men,  tanto  e 
piu  bella.'  A  female  breast  is  generally  thought  the 
most  beautiful  as  it  is  more  sparingly  discovered. 
38 


446  ESSAYS. 

As  my  cousm  had  not  put  on  all  this  finery  for  noth- 
ing, she  was  at  that  time  sallying  out  to  the  Park,  where 
I  had  overtaken  her.  Perceiving,  however,  that  I  had 
on  my  best  wig,  she  offered,  if  I  would  squire  her 
there,  to  send  home  the  footman.  Though  I  trembled 
for  our  reception  in  public,  yet  I  could  not,  with  any 
civility,  refuse ;  so,  to  be  as  gallant  as  possible,  I  took 
her  hand  in  my  arm,  and  thus  we  marched  on  together. 

When  we  made  our  entry  at  the  Park,  two  antiquat- 
ed figures,  so  polite  and  so  tender,  soon  attracted  the 
eyes  of  the  company.  As  we  made  our  way  among 
crowds  who  were  out  to  show  their  finery  as  well  as 
we,  wherever  we  came,  I  perceived  we  brought  good- 
humor  with  us.  The  polite  could  not  forbear  smiling, 
and  the  vulgar  burst  out  into  a  horse-laugh,  at  our  gro- 
tesque figures.  Cousin  Hannah,  who  was  perfectly 
conscious  of  the  rectitude  of  her  own  appearance,  at- 
tributed all  this  mirth  to  the  oddity  of  mine ;  while  I 
as  cordially  placed  the  whole  to  her  account.  Thus, 
from  being  two  of  the  best  natured  creatures  alive,  be- 
fore we  got  half  way  up  the  Mall,  we  both  began  to 
grow  peevish,  and,  like  two  mice  on  a  string,  endeav- 
ored to  revenge  the  impertinence  of  others  upon  our- 
selves. *  I  am  amazed,  cousin  Jeffrey,'  says  miss,  '  that 
I  can  never  get  you  to  dress  like  a  Christian.  I  knew 
we  should  have  the  eyes  of  the  Park  upon  us,  with  your 
great  wig  so  frizzled,  and  yet  so  beggarly,  and  your 
monstrous  muff.  I  hate  those  odious  muffs.'  I  could 
have  patiently  borne  a  criticism  on  all  the  rest  of  my 
equipage ;  but  as  I  had  always  a  peculiar  veneration 
for  my  muff,  I  could  not  forbear  being  piqued  a  little ; 


ESSAYS.  447 

and,  throwing  my  eyes  with  a  spiteful  air  on  her  bos- 
om, "  I  could  heartily  wish,  madam,"  replied  I,  "  that, 
for  your  sake,  my  muff  was  cut  into  a  tippet." 

As  my  cousin,  by  this  time,  was  grown  heartily  ash- 
amed of  her  gentleman-usher,  and  as  I  was  never  very 
fond  of  any  kind  of  exhibition  myself,  it  was  mutually 
agreed  to  retire  for  a  while  to  one  of  the  seatSj  and, 
from  that  retreat,  remark  on  others  as  freely  as  they 
had  remarked  on  us. 

When  seated,  we  continued  silent  for  some  time,  em- 
ployed in  very  different  speculations.  I  regarded  the 
whole  company,- now  passing  in  review  before  me,  as 
drawn  out  merely  for  my  amusement.  For  my  enter- 
tainment the  beauty  had  all  that  morning  been  improv- 
ing her  charms ;  the  beau  had  put  on  lace,  and  the 
young  doctor  a  big  wig,  merely  to  please  me.  But  quite 
different  were  the  sentiments  of  cousin  Hannah ;  she 
regarded  every  well-dressed  woman  as  a  victorious 
rival ;  hated  every  face  that  seemed  dressed  in  good- 
humor,  or  wore  the  appearance  of  greater  happiness 
than  her  own.  I  perceived  her  uneasiness,  and  at- 
tempted to  lessen  it,  by  observing  that  there  was  no 
company  in  the  Park  today.  To  this  she  readily  as- 
sented; "And  yet,"  says  she,  "it  is  full  enough  of 
scrubs  of  one  kind  or  another."  My  smiling  at  this 
observation  gave  her  spirits  to  pursue  the  bent  of  her 
inclination,  and  now  she  began  to  exhibit  her  skill  in 
secret  history,  as  she  found  me  disposed  to  listen. 
"  Observe,"  says  she  to  me,  "  that  old  woman  in  tawdry 
silk,  and  dressed  out  beyond  the  fashion.  That  is  Miss 
Biddy  Evergreen.  Miss  Biddy,  it  seems,  has  money ; 
and  as  she  considers  that  money  was  never  so  scarce  as 


448      •  ESSAYS. 

it  is  now,  she  seems  resolved  to  keep  what  she  has  to 
herself.  She  is  ugly  enough,  you  see  ;  yet,  I  assure  you, 
she  has  refused  several  offers,  to  my  knowledge,  with- 
in this  twelvemonth.  Let  me  see,  three  gentlemen  from 
Ireland,  who  study  the  law,  two  waiting  captains,  her 
doctor,  and  a  Scotch  preacher  who  had  liked  to  have 
carried  her  off.  All  her  time  is  passed  between  sickness 
and  finery.  Thus  she  spends  the  whole  week  in  a  close 
chamber,  with  no  other  company  but  her  monkey,  her 
apothecary,  and  cat ;  and  comes  dressed  out  to  the  Park 
every  Sunday,  to  show  her  airs,  to  get  new  lovers,  to 
catch  a  new  cold,  and  to  make  new  work  for  the  doctor. 

"  '  There  goes  Mrs.  Roundabout,  I  mean  the  fat  lady 
in  the  lustring  trollopee.  Between  you  and  I,  she  is  but 
a  cutler's  wife.  See  how  she's  dressed,  as  fine  as  hands 
and  pins  can  make  her,  while  her  two  marriageable 
daughters,  like  bunters  in  stuff  gowns,  are  now  taking 
six-penny-worth  of  tea  at  the  White-conduit  house. 
Odious  puss,  how  she  waddles  along,  with  her  train  two 
yards  behind  her !  She  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  lord 
Bantam's  Indian  sheep,  which  are  obliged  to  have  their 
monstrous  tails  trundled  along  in  a  go-cart.  For  all  her 
airs,  it  goes  to  her  husband's  heart  to  see  four  yards  of 
good  lustring  wearing  against  the  ground,  like  one  of 
his  knives  on  a  grindstone.  To  speak  my  mind,  cousin 
Jeffery,  I  never  liked  those  tails ;  for  suppose  a  young 
fellow  should  be  rude,  and  the  lady  should  offer  to  step 
back  in  the  fright,  instead  of  retiring,  she  treads  upon 
her  train,  and  falls  fairly  on  her  back ;  and  then  you 
know,  cousin, —  her  clothes  may  be  spoiled. 

"  'Ah  !  Miss  Mazzard !     I  knew  we  should  not  rnUs 


ASSAYS.    .  449 

her  in  the  Park  ;  she  in  the  monstrous  Prussian  bonnet 
Miss,  though  so  very  fine,  was  bred  a  milliner ;  and 
might  have  had  some  custom  if  she  had  minded  her 
business ;  but  the  girl  was  fond  of  finery,  and,  instead 
of  dressing  her  customers,  laid  out  all  her  goods  in 
adorning  herself,  every  new  gown  she  put  on  impaired 
her  credit ;  she  still,  however,  went  on,  improving  her 
appearance  and  lessening  her  little  fortune,  and  is  now, 
you  see,  become  a  belle  and  a  bankrupt.' 

"  My  cousin  was  proceeding  in  her  remarks,  which 
were  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  the  very  lady  she 
had  been  so  freely  describing.  Miss  had  perceived  her 
at  a  distance,  and  approached  to  salute  her.  I  found  by 
the  warmth  of  the  two  ladies'  protestations,  that  they 
had  been  long  intimate,  esteemed  rfriends  and  acquaint- 
ance. Both  were  so  pleased  at  this  happy  rencounter, 
that  they  were  resolved  not  to  part  for  the  day.  So 
we  all  crossed  the  Park  together,  and  I  saw  them  into 
a  hackney-coach  at  St.  James's." 


ASEM;   AN   EASTERN   TALE: 

OR  THE  WISDOM  OF  PROVIDENCE  IN  THE  MORAL  GOVERNMENT 
OF  THE  WORLD. 

WHERE  Tauris  lifts  his  head  above  the  storm,  and 
presents  nothing  to  the  sight  of  the  distant  traveller  but 
a  propect  of  nodding  rocks,  falling  torrents,  and  all  the 
variety  of  tremendous  nature ;  on  the  bleak  bosom  of 
this  frightful  mountain,  secluded  from  society,  and  de- 
testing the  ways  of  men,  lived  Asem,  the  man-hater. 
38* 


450  .        ESSAYS. 

Asem  had  spent  his  youth  with  men ;  had  shared  in 
their  amusements  ;  and  had  been  taught  to  love  his  fel- 
low-creatures with  the  most  ardent  affection  ;  but,  from 
the  tenderness  of  his  disposition,  he  exhausted  all  his 
fortune  in  relieving  the  wants  of  the  distressed.  The 
petitioner  never  sued  in  vain ;  the  weary  traveller 
never  passed  his  door;  he  only  desisted  from  doing 
good  when  he  had  no  longer  the  power  of  relieving. 

From  a  fortune  thus  spent  in  benevolence  he  expect- 
ed a  grateful  return  from  those  he  had  formerly  re- 
lieved ;  and  made  his  application  with  confidence  of  re- 
dress ;  the  ungrateful  world  soon  grew  weary  of  his 
importunity ;  for  pity  is  but  a  short-lived  passion.  He 
soon,  therefore,  began  to  view  mankind  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent light  from  that  in  which  he  had  before  beheld 
them ;  he  perceived  a  thousand  vices  he  had  never  be- 
fore suspected  to  exist ;  wherever  he  turned  ingrati- 
tude, dissimulation,  and  treachery  contributed  to  in- 
crease his  detestation  of  them.  Resolved,  therefore, 
to  continue  no  longer  in  a  world  which  he  hated,  and 
which  repaid  his  detestation  with  contempt,  he  retired 
to  this  region  of  sterility,  in  order  to  brood  over  his 
resentment  in  solitude,  and  converse  with  the  only 
honest  heart  he  knew  ;  namely,  his  own. 

A  cave  was  his  only  shelter  from  the  inclemency  of 
the  weather ;  fruits,  gathered  with  difficulty  from  the 
mountain's  side,  his  only  food  ;  and  his  drink  was  fetch- 
ed with  danger  and  toil  from  the  headlong  torrent.  In 
this  manner  he  lived,  sequestered  from  society,  passing 
the  hours  in  meditation,  and  sometimes  exulting  that 
he  was  able  to  live  independently  of  his  fellow-creatures. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  an  extensive  lake  dis 


ESSAYS.  451 

played  its  glassy  bosom,  reflecting  on  its  broad  surface 
the  impending  horrors  of  the  mountain.  To  this  capa- 
cious mirror  he  would  sometimes  descend,  and  reclining 
on  its  steep  banks,  cast  an  eager  look  on  the  smooth 
expanse  that  lay  before  him.  "  How  beautiful,"  he  of- 
ten cried,  "  is  nature !  how  lovely,  even  in  her  wildest 
scenes  !  How  finely  contrasted  is  the  level  plain  that 
lies  beneath  me,  with  yon  awful  pile  that  hides  its  tre- 
mendous head  in  clouds !  But  the  beauty  of  these 
scenes  is  no  way  comparable  with  their  utility ;  from 
hence  a  hundred  rivers  are  supplied,  which  distribute 
health  and  verdure  to  the  various  countries  through 
which  they  flow.  Every  part  of  the  universe  is  beauti- 
ful, just,  and  wise,  but  man :  vile  man  is  a  solecism  in 
nature,  -the  only  monster  in  the  creation.  Tempests 
and  whirlwinds  have  their  use ;  but  vicious,  ungrateful 
man  is  a  blot  in  the  fair  page  of  universal  beauty. 
Why  was  I  born  of  that  detested  species,  whose  vices 
are  almost  a  reproach  to  the  wisdom  of  the  Divine 
Creator  ?  Were  men  entirely  free  from  vice,  all  would 
be  uniformity,  harmony,  and  order.  A  world  of  moral 
rectitude  should  be  the  result  of  a  perfectly  moral 
agent.  Why,  why,  then,  O  Alia !  must  I  be  thus  con- 
fined in  darkness,  doubt,  and  despair  ?  " 

Just  as  he  uttered  the  word  despair,  he  was  going  to 
plunge  into  the  lake  beneath  him,  at  once  to  satisfy  his 
doubts,  and  put  a  period  to  his  anxiety  ;  when  he  per- 
ceived a  most  majestic  being  walking  on  the  surface  of 
the  water,  and  approaching  the  bank  on  which  he  stood. 
So  unexpected  an  object  at  once  checked  his  purpose ; 
he  stopped,  contemplated,  and  fancied  he  saw  some- 
thing awful  and  divine  in  his  aspect. 


452  ESSAYS. 

"  Son  of  Adam,"  cried  the  genius,  "  stop  thy  rash 
purpose ;  the  Father  of  the  Faithful  has  seen  thy  jus- 
tice, thy  integrity,  thy  miseries ;  and  hath  sent  me  to 
afford  and  administer  relief.  Give  me  thine  hand,  and 
follow  without  trembling,  wherever  I  shall  lead  ;  in  me 
behold  the  genius  of  conviction,  kept  by  the  great  pn> 
phet,  to  turn  from  their  errors  those  who  go  astray,  not 
from  curiosity,  but  a  rectitude  of  intention.  Follow 
me,  and  be  wise." 

Asem  immediately  descended  upon  the  lake,  and  his 
guide  conducted  him  along  the  surface  x>f  the  water ; 
till,  coming  near  the  centre  of  the  lake,  they  both  be- 
gan to  sink  ;  the  waters  closed  over  their  heads  ;  they 
descended  several  hundred  fathoms,  till  Asem,  just 
ready  to  give  up  his  life  as  inevitably  lost,  foupd  him- 
self with  his  celestial  guide  in  another  world,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  waters,  where  human  foot  had  never  trod 
before.  His  astonishment  was  beyond  description,  when 
he  saw  a  sun  like  that  he  had  left,  a  serene  sky  over 
his  head,  and  blooming  verdure  under  his  feet. 

"  I  plainly  perceive  your  amazement,"  said  the  geni- 
us ;  "  but  suspend  it  for  a  while.  This  world  was  form- 
ed by  Alia,  at  the  request,  and  under  the  inspection  of 
our  great  prophet ;  who  once  entertained  the  same 
doubts  which  filled  your  mind  when  I  found  you,  and 
from  the  consequence  of  which  you  were  so  lately  res- 
cued. The  rational  inhabitants  of  this  world  are  form- 
ed agreeable  to  your  own  ideas ;  they  are  absolutely 
without  vice.  In  other  respects  it  resembles  your  earth ; 
but  differs  from  it  in  being  wholly  inhabited  by  men 
who  never  do  wrong.  If  you  find  this  world  mora 


ESSAYS.  453 

agreeable  than  that  you  so  lately  left,  you  have  free 
permission  to  spend  the  remainder  of  your  days  in  it ; 
but  permit  me  for  some  time,  to  attend  you,  that  I  may 
silence  your  doubts,  and  make  you  better  acquainted 
with  your  company  and  your  new  habitation." 

"A  world  without  vice  !  Rational  beings  without  im- 
morality !  "  cried  Asem,  in  a  rapture  ;  "  I  thank  thee, 
0  Alia,  who  hast  at  length  heard  my  petitions  :  this, 
this  indeed,  will  produce  happiness,  ecstasy,  and  ease. 
O  for  an  immortality,  to  spend  it  among  men  who  are 
incapable  of  ingratitude,  injustice,  fraud,  violence,  and 
a  thousand  other  crimes  that  render  society  miserable ! " 

"  Cease  thine  acclamations,"  replied  the  genius. 
"  Look  around  thee  ;  reflect  on  every  object  and  action 
before  us,  and  communicate  to  me  the  result  of  thine 
observations.  Lead  wherever  you  think  proper,  I  shall 
be  your  attendant  and  instructor."  Asem  and  his  com- 
panion travelled  on  in  silence  for  some  time  ;  the  form- 
er being  entirely  lost  in  astonishment ;  but,  at  last,  re- 
covering his  former  serenity,  he  could  not  help  observ- 
ing that  the  face  of  the  country  bore  a  near  resem- 
blance to  that  he  had  left,  except  that  this  subterrane- 
an world  still  seemed  to  retain  its  primeval  wildness. 

"  Here,"  cried  Asem,  "  I  perceive  animals  of  prey, 
and  others  that  seem  only  designed  for  their  subsist- 
ence •,  it  is  the  very  same  in  the  world  over  our  heads. 
But  had  I  been  permitted  to  instruct  our  prophet,  I 
would  have  removed  this  defect,  and  formed  no  vora- 
cious or  destructive  animals,  which  only  prey  on  the 
other  parts  of  the  creation." — "  Your  tenderness  for 
inferior  animals,  is,  I  find,  remarkable,"  said  the  geni- 
us, smiling.  "  But,  with  regard  to  meaner  creatures, 


454  ESSAYS. 

this  world  exactly  resembles  the  other ;  and,  indeed,  for 
obvious  reasons  :  for  the  earth  can  support  a  more  con- 
siderable number  of  animals,  by  their  thus  becoming 
food  for  each  other,  than  if  they  had  lived  entirely  on 
her  vegetable  productions.  So  that  animals  of  differ- 
ent natures  thus  formed,  instead  of  lessening  their  mul- 
titudes, subsist  in  the  greatest  number  possible.  But 
let  us  hasten  on  to  the  inhabited  countn  before  us, 
and  see  what  that  offers  for  instruction." 

They  soon  gamed  the  utmost  verge  of  the  forest-,  and 
entered  the  country  inhabited  by  men  without  vice ; 
and  Asem  anticipated  in  idea  the  rational  delight  he 
hoped  to  experience  in  such  an  innocent  society.  But 
they  had  scarce  left  the  confines  of  the  wood,  when 
they  beheld  one  of  the  inhabitants  flying  with  hasty 
steps,  and  terror  in  his  countenance,  from  an  army  of 
squirrels  that  closely  pursued  him.  "  Heavens  !  "  cried 
Asem,  "  why  does  he  fly  ?  What  can  he  fear  from  ani- 
mals so  contemptible  ?  "  He  had  scarce  spoken,  when 
he  perceived  two  dogs  pursuing  another  of  the  human 
species,  who,  with  equal  terror  and  haste,  attempted  to 
avoid  them.  "This,"'  cried  Asem  to  his  guide,  "is 
truly  surprising ;  nor  can  I  conceive  the  reason  for  so 
strange  an  action."  "  Every  species  of  animals,"  re- 
plied the  genius,  "  has  of  late  grown  very  powerful  in 
this  country ;  for  the  inhabitants,  at  first,  thinking  it 
unjust  to  use  either. fraud  or  force  in  destroying  them, 
they  have  insensibly  increased,  and  now  frequently 
ravage  their  harmless  frontiers."  "  But  they  should 
have  been  destroyed,"  cried  Asem ;  "  you  see  the  con- 
sequence of  such  neglect."  "  Where  is  then  that  ten- 
derness you  so  lately  expressed  for  subordinate  ani- 


ESSAYS.  455 

mals  ?  "  replied  the  genius,  smiling :  "  you  seem  to  have 
forgot  that  branch  of  justice."  "  I  must  acknowledge 
my  mistake,"  returned  Asem  ;  "  I  am  now  convinced 
that  we  must  be  guilty  of  tyranny  and  injustice  to  the 
brute  creation,  if  we  would  enjoy  the  world  ourselves. 
But  let  us  no  longer  observe  the  duty  of  man  to  these 
irrational  creatures,  but  survey  their  connections  with 
one  another." 

As  they  walked  farther  up  the  country,  the  more  he 
was  surprised  to  see  no  vestiges  of  handsome  houses,  no 
cities,  nor  any  mark  of  elegant  design.  His  conductor, 
perceiving  his  surprise,  observed  that  the  inhabitants 
of  this  new  world  were  perfectly  content  with  their  an- 
cient simplicity ;  each  had  a  house,  which,  though 
homely,  was  sufficient  to  lodge  his  little  family ;  they 
were  too  good  to  build  houses  which  could  only  in- 
crease their  own  pride,  and  the  envy  of  the  spectator; 
what  they  built  was  for  convenience,  and  not  for  show. . 
"At  least,  then,"  said  Asem,  "  they  have  neither  archi- 
tects, painters,  nor  statuaries,  in  their  society;  but 
these  are  the  idle  arts,  and  may  be  spared.  However, 
before  I  spend  much  more  time  here,  you  shall  have 
my  thanks  for  introducing  me  into  the  society  of  some 
of  their  wisest  men  :  there  is  scarce  any  pleasure  tosme 
equal  to  a  refined  conversation  ;  there  is  nothing  of 
which  I  am  so  much  enamoured  as  wisdom."  "  Wis- 
dom !  "  replied  his  instructor  :  "  how  ridiculous  !  We 
have  no  wisdom  here,  for  we  have  no  occasion  for  it ; 
true  wisdom  is  only  a  knowledge  of  our  own  duty,  and 
the  duty  of  others  to  us ;  but  of  what  use  is  such  wis- 
dom here  ?  Each  intuitively  performs  what  is  right  in 
himself,  and  expects  the  same  from  others.  If  by  wi^ 


456  ESSAYS. 

dom  you  should  mean  vain  curiosity,  and  empty  specu- 
lation, as  such  pleasures  have  their  origin  in  vanity, 
luxury,  or  avarice,  we  are  too  good  to  pursue  them." 
"All  this  may  be  right,"  says  Asem  ;  "  but,  methinks  I 
observe  a  solitary  disposition  prevail  among  the  people ; 
each  family  keeps  separately  within  their  own  precincts, 
without  society,  or  without  intercourse."  "  That,  in- 
deed is  true,"  replied  the  other;  "here  is  no  establish- 
ed society,  nor  should  there  be  any :  all  societies  are 
made  either  through  fear  or  friendship ;  the  people  we 
are  among  are  too  good  to  fear  each  other ;  and  there 
are  no  motives  to  private  friendship,  where  all  are 
equally  meritorious."  "Well,  then,"  said  the  sceptic, 
"  as  I  am  to  spend  my  time  here,  if  I  am  to  have  nei- 
ther the  polite  arts,  nor  wisdom,  nor  friendship,  in  such 
a  world,  I  should  be  glad,  at  least,  of  an  easy  compan- 
ion, who  may  tell  me  his  thoughts,  and  to  whom  I  may 
communicate  mine."  "And  to  what  purpose  should 
either  do  this  ?  "  says  the  genius  :  "  flattery  or  curiosi- 
ty are  vicious  motives,  and  never  allowed  of  here :  and 
wisdom  is  out  of  the  question." 

"  Still,  however,"  said  Asem,  "  the  inhabitants  must 
be  happy ;  each  is  contented  with  his  own  possessions, 
nor  avariciously  endeavors  to  heap  up  more  than  is 
necessary  for  his  own  subsistence ;  each  has  therefore 
leisure  for  pitying  those  that  stand  in  need  of  his  com' 
passion."  He  had  scarce  spoken  when  his  ears  were 
assaulted  with  the  lamentations  of  a  wretch  who  sat 
by  the  way-side,  and,  in  the  most  deplorable  distress, 
seemed  gently  to  murmur  at  his  own  misery.  Asem 
immediately  ran  to  his  relief,  and  found  him  in  the  last 
stage  of  a  consumption.  u  Strange,"  cried  the  son  of 


ESSAYS.  457 

Adam,  "  that  men  who  are  free  from  vice  should  thus 
suffer  so  much  misery  without  relief !  "     "Be  not  sur- 
prised," said  the  wretch,  who  was  dying ;  "  would  it 
not  be  the  utmost  injustice  for  beings  who  have  only 
just  sufficient  to  support  themselves,  and  are  content 
with  a  bare  subsistence,  to  take  it  from   their  own 
mouths  to  put  it  into  mine  ?     They  never  are  possess- 
ed of  a  single  meal  more  than  is  necessary ;  and  what 
is  barely  necessary  cannot  be  dispensed  with."  "  They 
should  have  been  supplied  with  more  than  is  necessary," 
cried  Asem  ;  "  and  yet  I  contradict  my  own  opinion  but 
a  moment  before :  all  is  doubt,  perplexity,  and  confu- 
sion.    Even  the  want  of  ingratitude  is  no  virtue  here, 
since  they  never  receive  a  favor.  They  have,  however, 
another  excellence  yet  behind ;  the  love  of  their  coun- 
try is   still,    I   hope,   one  of   their   darling  virtues." 
"  Peace,  Asem,"  replied  the  guardian,  with  a  counten- 
ance not  less  severe  than  beautiful,  "  nor  forfeit  all  thy 
pretensions  to  wisdom ;  the  same  selfish  motives  by 
which  we  prefer  our  own  interest  to  that  of  others,  in- 
duce us  to  regard  our  country  preferable  to  that  of  an- 
other. Nothing  less  than  universal  benevolence  is  free 
from    vice,    and    that    you    see    is    practised    here." 
"  Strange,"  cries  the  disappointed  pilgrim,  in  an  agony 
of  distress ;  "  what  sort  of  a  world  am  I  now  introduc- 
ed to  ?  There  is  scarce  a  single  virtue,  but  that  of  tem- 
perance, which  they  practise ;  and  in  that  they  are  no 
way  superior  to  the  brute  creation.  There  is  scarce  an 
amusement   which    they   enjoy ;    fortitude,    liberality, 
friendship,  wisdom,  conversation,  and  love  of  country, 
are  all  virtues  entirely  unknown  here ;  thus  it  seems, 
that  to  be  unacquainted  with  vice  is  not  to  know  virtue. 
39 


458  ESSAYS. 

Take  me,  O  my  genius,  back  to  that  very  world  which 
I  have  despised ;  a  world  which  has  Alia  for  its  con- 
triver, is  much  more  wisely  formed  than  that  which  has 
been  projected  by  Mohammed.  Ingratitude,  contempt, 
and  hatred,  I  can  now  suffer,  for  perhaps  I  have  de- 
served them.  When  I  arraigned  the  wisdom  of  Provi- 
dence, I  only  showed  my  own  ignorance ;  henceforth  let 
me  keep  from  vice  myself,  and  pity  it  in  others." 

He  had  scarce  ended,  when  the  genius,  assuming  an 
air  of  terrible  complacency,  called  all  his  thunders 
around  him,  and  vanished  in  a  whirlwind.  Asem,  as- 
tonished at  the  terror  of  the  scene,  looked  for  his  im- 
aginary world ;  when,  casting  his  eyes  around,  he  per- 
ceived himself  in  the  very  situation,  and  the  very  place, 
where  he  first  began  to  repine  and  despair ;  his  right 
foot  had  been  just  advanced  to  take  the  fatal  plunge, 
nor  had  it  been  yet  withdrawn ;  so  instantly  did  Prov- 
idence strike  the  series  of  truths  just  imprinted  on  his 
soul.  He  now  departed  from  the  water-side  in  tran- 
quility,  and,  leaving  his  horrid  mansion,  travelled  to 
Segestan,  his  native  city  ;  where  he  diligently  applied 
himself  to  commerce,  and  put  in  practice  that  wisdom 
he  had  learned  in  solitude.  The  frugality  of  a  few 
years  soon  produced  opulence  ;  the  number  of  his  do- 
mestics increased  ;  his  friends  came  to  him  from  every 
part  of  the  city,  nor  did  he  receive  them  with  disdain ; 
and  a  youth  of  misery  was  concluded  with  an  old  age 
of  elegance,  affluence,  and  ease. 


ON   THE   ENGLISH   CLERGY   AND   POPULAR 
PREACHERS. 

IT  is  allowed  on  all  hands,  that  our  English  divines 


ESSAYS.  459 

receive  a  more  liberal  education,  and  improve  that  edu- 
cation by  frequent  study,  more  than  any  others  of  this 
reverend  profession  in  Europe.  In  general,  also,  it  may 
be  observed,  that  a  greater  degree  of  gentility  is  affixed 
to  the  character  of  a  student  in  England  than  else- 
where ;  by  which  means  our  clergy  have  an  opportuni- 
ty of  seeing  better  company  while  young,  and  of  soon- 
er wearing  off  those  prejudices  which  they  are  apt  to 
imbibe  even  in  the  best-regulated  universities,  and  which 
may  be  justly  termed  the  vulgar  errors  of  the  wise. 

Yet,  with  all  these  advantages,  it  is  very  obvious, 
that  the  clergy  are  no  where  so  little  thought  of,  by  the 
populace,  as  here  ;  and,  though  our  divines  are  foremost 
with  respect  to  abilities,  yet  they  are  founi  last  in  the 
effects  of  their  ministry  ;  the  vulgar,  in  general,  appear- 
ing no  way  impressed  with  a  sense  of  religious  duty. 
I  am  not  for  whining  at  the  depravity  of  the  times,  or 
for  endeavoring  to  paint  a  prospect  more  gloomy  than 
in  nature ;  but  certain  it  is,  no  person  who  has  travel- 
led will  contradict  me,  when  I  aver,  that  the  lower  or- 
ders of  mankind,  in  other  countries,  testify,  on  every 
occasion,  the  profoundest  awe  of  religion ;  while  in  Eng- 
land they  are  scarcely  awakened  into  a  sense  of  its  du- 
ties, even  in  circumstances  of  the  greatest  distress. 

This  dissolute  and  fearless  conduct  foreigners  are  apt 
to  attribute  to  climate  and  constitution ;  may  not  the 
vulgar  being  pretty  much  neglected  in  our  exhortations 
from  the  pulpit,  be  a  conspiring  cause  ?  Our  divines  sel- 
dom stoop  to  their  mean  capacities  ;  and  they  who  want 
instruction  most,  find  least  in  our  religious  assemblies. 

Whatever  may  become  of  the  higher  orders  of  man- 
kind, who  are  generally  possessed  of  collateral  motives 


460  ESSAYS. 

to  virtue,  the  vulgar  should  be  particularly  regarded, 
whose  behavior  in  civil  life  is  totally  hinged  upon  their 
hopes  and  fears.  Those  who  constitute  the  basis  of 
the  great  fabric  of  society,  should  be  particularly  re- 
garded; for,  in  policy,  as  architecture,  ruin  is  most 
fatal  when  it  begins  from  the  bottom. 

Men  of  real  sense  and  understanding  prefer  a  prud- 
ent mediocrity  to  a  precarious  popularity,  and,  fearing 
to  out-do  their  duty,  leave  it  half  done.  Their  dis- 
courses from  the  pulpit  are  generally  dry,  methodical, 
and  unaffecting :  delivered  with  the  most  insipid  calm- 
ness ;  insomuch,  that  should  the  peaceful  preacher  lift 
his  head  over  the  cushion,  which  alone  he  seems  to  ad- 
dress, he  might  discover  his  audience,  instead  of  being 
awakened  to  remorse,  actually  sleeping  over  his  me- 
thodical and  labored  composition. 

This  method  of  preaching  is,  however,  by  some  called 
an  address  to  reason,  and  not  to  the  passions  ;  this  is 
styled  the  making  of  converts  from  conviction  ;  but  such 
are  indifferently  acquainted  with  human  nature,  who  are 
not  sensible  that  men  seldom  reason  about  their  de- 
baucheries till  they  are  committed.  Reason  is  but  a 
weak  antagonist  when  headlong  passion  dictates  ;  in  all 
such  cases  we  should  arm  one  passion  against  another: 
it  is  with  the  human  mind  as  in  nature ;  from  the  mix- 
ture of  two  opposites,  the  result  is  most  frequently  neu- 
tral tranquility.  Those  who  attempt  to  reason  us  out 
of  follies,  begin  at  the  wrong  end,  since  the  attempt  na- 
turally presupposes  us  capable  of  reason ;  but  to  be  made 
capable  of  this,  is  one  great  point  of  the  cure. 

There  are  but  few  talents  requisite  to  become  a  popu- 
lar preacher ;  for  the  people  are  easily  pleased,  if  they 


ESSAYS.  461 

perceive  any  endeavors  in  the  orator  to  please  them 
the  meanest  qualifications  will  work  this  effect,  if  the 
preacher  sincerely  sets  about  it.  Perhaps  little,  indeed 
very  little  more  is  required,  than  sincerity  and  assur- 
ance ;  and  a  becoming  sincerity  is  always  certain  of 
producing  a  becoming  assurance.  "  Si  vis  me  flere,  do- 
lendum  est  primum  tibi  ipsi,"  is  so  trite  a  quotation, 
that  it  almost  demands  an  apology  to  repeat  it;  yet 
though  all  allow  the  justice  of  the  remark,  how  few  do 
we  find  put  it  in  practice !  Our  orators,  with  the  most 
faulty  bashfulness,  seem  impressed  rather  with  an  awe 
of  their  audience,  than  with  a  just  respect  for  the 
truths  they  are  about  to  deliver :  they,  of  all  profes- 
sions, seem  the  most  bashful,  who  have  the  greatest 
right  to  glory  in  their  commission. 

The  French  preachers  generally  assume  all  that  dig- 
nity which  becomes  men  who  are  ambassadors  from 
Christ;  the  English  divines,  like  erroneous  envoys, 
seem  more  solicitous  not  to  offend  the  court  to  which 
they  are  sent,  than  to  drive  home  the  interests  of  their 
employer.  The  bishop  of  Massillon,  in  the  first  sermor 
he  ever  preached,  found  the  whole  audience,  upon  his 
getting  into  the  pulpit,  in  a  disposition  no  way  favor- 
able to  his  intentions  ;  their  nods,  whispers,  or  drowsy 
behavior,  showed  him  that  there  was  no  great  profit 
to  be  expected  from  his  sowing  in  a  soil  so  improper ; 
however,  he  soon  changed  the  disposition  of  his  audi- 
ence by  his  manner  of  beginning.  "If,"  says  he,  " a 
cause  the  most  important  that  could  be  conceived,  were 
to  be  tried  at  the  bar  before  qualified  judges ;  if  this 
cause  interested  ourselves  in  particular ;  if  the  eyes  of 
39* 


462  ESSAYS. 

the  whole  kingdom  were  fixed  upon  the  event ;  if  the 
most  eminent  counsel  were  employed  on  both  sides ; 
and  if  we  had  heard  from  our  infancy  of  this  yet-unde- 
termined trial, —  would  you  not  all  sit  with  due  atten- 
tion, and  warm  expectation,  to  the  pleadings  on  each 
side  ?  Would  not  all  your  hopes  and  fears  be  hinged 
on  the  final  decision  ?  and  yet,  let  me  tell  you,  have 
this  moment  a  cause  of  much  greater  importance  be- 
fore you ;  a  cause  where  not  one  nation,  but  all  the 
world  are  spectators ;  tried  not  before  a  fallible  tribu- 
nal,' but  the  awful  throne  of  Heaven  ;  where  not  your 
temporal  and  transitory  interests  are  the  subject  of  de- 
bate, but  your  eternal  happiness  or  misery  ;  where  the 
cause  is  still  undetermined,  but,  perhaps,  the  very  mo- 
ment I  am  speaking  may  fix  the  irrevocable  decree 
that  shall  last  forever:  aud  yet,  notwithstanding  all 
this,  you  can  hardly  sit  with  patience  to  hear  the  tid- 
ings of  your  own  salvation  ;  I  plead  the  cause  of  Heav- 
en, and  yet  I  am  scarcely  attended  to,"  etc. 

The  style,  the  abruptness  of  a  beginning  like  this,  in 
the  closet  would  appear  absurd ;  but  in  the  pulpit  it  is 
attended  with  the  most  lasting  impressions  :  that  style 
which,  in  the  closet,  might  justly  be  called  flimsy, 
seems  the  true  mode  of  eloquence  here.  I  never  read 
a  fine  composition  under  the  title  of  a  sermon,  that  I 
do  not  think  the  author  has  miscalled  his  piece ;  for 
the  talents  to  be  used  in  writing  well  entirely  differ 
from  those  of  speaking  well.  The  qualifications  for 
speaking,  as  has  been  already  observed,  are  easily  ac- 
quired ;  they  are  accomplishments  which  may  be  taken 
up  by  e>ery  candidate  who  will  be  at  the  pains  of 


ESSAYS.  463 

stooping.  Impressed  with  a  sense  of  the  truths  he  is 
about  to  deliver,  a  preacher  disregards  the  applause  or 
the  contempt  of  his  audience,  and  he  insensibly  as- 
sumes a  just  and  manly  sincerity.  With  this  talent 
alone  we  see  what  crowds  are  drawn  around  enthu- 
siasts, even  destitute  of  common  sense  ;  what  numbers 
converted  to  Christianity.  Folly  may  sometimes  set  an 
example  for  wisdom  to  practise ;  and  our  regular  di- 
vines may  borrow  instruction  from  even  Methodists,who 
go  their  circuits,  and  preach  prizes  among  the  populace. 
Even  Whitefield  may  be  placed  as  a  model  to  some  of 
our  young  divines ;  let  them  join  to  their  own  good 
sense  his  earnest  manner  of  delivery. 

It  will  be  perhaps  objected,  that  by  confining  the  ex- 
cellences of  a  preacher  to  proper  assurance,  earnest- 
ness, and  openness  of  style,  I  make  the  qualifications 
too  trifling  for  estimation ;  there  will  he  something 
called  oratory  brought  up  on  this  occasion  ;  action,  atti- 
tude, grace,  elocution,  may  be  repeated  as  absolutely 
necessary  to  complete  the  character  ;  but  let  us  not  be 
deceived ;  common  sense  is  seldom  swayed  by  fine  tones, 
musical  periods,  just  attitudes,  or  the  display  of  a  white 
handkerchief ;  oratorial  .behavior,  except  in  very  able 
hands  indeed,  generally  sinks  into  awkward  and  paltry 
affectation. 

It  must  be  observed,  however,  that  these  rules  are 
calculated  only  for  him  who  would  instruct  the  vulgar, 
who  stand  in  most  need  of  instruction  ;  to  address  philo- 
sophers, and  to  obtain  the  character  of  a  polite  preacher 
among  the  polite  —  a  much  more  useless,  though  more 
sought-for  character  —  requires  a  different  method  of 
proceeding.  All  I  shall  observe  on  this  head  is,  to  en- 


464  ESSAYS. 

treat  the  polemic  divine,  in  his  controversy  with  the 
deist,  to  act  rather  offensively  than  to  defend  ;  to  push 
home  the  grounds  of  his  belief,  and  the  impracticability 
of  theirs,  rather  than  to  spend  time  in  solving  the  objec- 
tions of  every  opponent.  "  It  is  ten  to  one,"  says  a  late 
writer  on  the  art  of  war,  "  but  that  the  assailant  who 
attacks  the  enemy  in  his  trenches  is  always  victorious." 
Yet,  upon  the  whole,  our  clergy  might  employ  them- 
selves more  to  the  benefit  of  society,  by  declining  all 
controversy,  than  by  exhibiting  even  the  profoundest 
skill  in  polemic  disputes  ;  their  contests  with  each  other 
often  turn  on  speculative  trifles ;  and  their  disputes  with 
the  deist  are  almost  at  an  end.  MIICC  they  can  have  no 
more  than  victory  ;  and  that  they  are  already  possessed 
of,  as  their  antagonists  have  been  driven  into  a  confes- 
sion of  the  necessity  of  revelation,  or  an  open  avowal  of 
atheism.  To  continue  the  dispute  longer  would  only  •  -n- 
danger  it ;  the  sceptic  is  very  expert  at  puzzling  a  de- 
bate which  he  finds  himself  unable  to  continue,"  and,  1  ike 
an  Olympic  boxer,  generally  fights  best  when  under- 
most." 

ADVANTAGES  TO  BE  DERIVED  FROM  SENDING  A 
JUDICIOUS  TRAVELLER  INTO  ASIA. 

I  HAVE  frequently  been  amazed  at  the  ignorance  of 
almost  all  the  European  travellers,  who  have  penetrated 
any  considerable  way  eastward  into  Asia.  They  have 
all  been  influenced  either  by  motives  of  commerce  or 
piety,  and  their  accounts  are  such  as  might  reasonably 
be  expected  from  men  of  a  very  narrow  or  very  pre- 
judiced education  —  the  dictates  of  superstition,  or  the 
result  of  ignorance.  Is  it  not  surprising,  that,  of  such 


ESSAYS.  465 

A  variety  of  adventures,  not  one  single  philosopher 
should  be  found  among  the  number  ?  For,  as  to  the 
travels  of  Gremelli,  the  learned  are  long  agreed  that 
the  whole  is  but  an  imposture. 

There  is  scarce  any  country,  how  rude  or  uncultivated 
soever,  where  the  inhabitants  are  not  possessed  of  some 
peculiar  secrets,  either  in  nature  or  art,  which  might 
be  transplanted  with  success ;  thus,  for  instance,  in 
Siberian  Tartary,  the  natives  extract  a  strong  spirit 
from  milk,  which  is  a  secret  probably  unknown  to  the 
chemists  in  Europe.  In  the  most  savage  parts  of  India 
they  are  possessed  of  the  secret  of  dying  vegetable  sub- 
stances scarlet,  and  likewise  that  of  refining  lead  into  a 
metal,  which,  for  hardness  and  color,  is  little  inferior 
to  silver ;  not  one  of  which  secrets  but  would,  in  Eu- 
rope, make  a  man's  fortune.  The  power  of  the  Asiatics 
in  producing  winds,  or  bringing  down  rain,  the  Euro- 
peans are  apt  to  treat  as  fabulous,  because  they  have  no 
instances  of  the  like  nature  among  themselves :  but  they 
would  have  treated  the  secrets  of  gunpowder,  and  the 
mariner's  compass  in  the  same  manner,  had  they  been 
told  the  Chinese  used  such  arts  before  the  invention 
was  common  with  themselves  at  home. 

Of  all  the  English  philosophers,  I  most  reverence 
Bacon,  that  great  and  hardy  genius  ;  he  it  is,  who,  un- 
daunted by  the  seeming  difficulties  that  oppose,  prompts 
human  curiosity  to  examine  every  part  of  nature ;  and 
even  exorts  man  to  try  whether  he  cannot  subject  the 
tempest,  the  thunder,  and  even  earthquakes,  to  human 
control.  Oh !  had  a  man  of  his  daring  spirit,  of  his 
genius,  penetration,  and  learning,  travelled  to  those 
countries  which  have  been  visited  only  by  the  supersti- 


466  ESSAYS. 

tious  and  mercenary,  what  might  not  mankind  expect! 
How  would  he  enlighten  the  regions  to  which  he  travel- 
led !  and  what  a  variety  of  knowledge  and  useful  im- 
provement would  he  not  bring  back  in  exchange ! 

There  is  probably  no  country  so  barbarous,  that 
would  not  disclose  all  it  knew,  if  it  received  equivalent 
information  ;  and  I  am  apt  to  think,  that  a  person  who 
was  ready  to  give  more  knowledge  than  he  received, 
would  be  welcome  wherever  he  came.  All  his  care  in 
travelling  should  only  be,  to  suit  his  intellectual  banquet 
to  the  people  with  whom  he  conversed ;  he  should  not 
attempt  to  teach  the  unlettered  Tartar  astronomy,  nor 
yet  instruct  the  polite  Chinese  in  the  arts  of  subsistence ; 
he  should  endeavor  to  improve  the  barbarian  in  the 
secrets  of  living  comfortably  ;  and  the  inhabitants  of  a 
more  refined  country,  in  the  speculative  pleasures  of 
science.  How  much  more  nobly  would  a  philosopher, 
thus  employed,  spend  his  time,  than  by  sitting  at  home, 
earnestly  intent  upon  adding  one  star  more  to  his  cata- 
logue, or  one  monster  more  to  his  collection  ;  or  still, 
if  possible,  more  triflingly  sedulous,  in  the  incatenation 
of  fleas,  or  the  sculpture  of  cherry-stones. 

I  never  consider  this  subject  without  being  surprised 
that  none  of  those  societies  30  laudably  established  in 
England  for  the  promotion  of  arts  and  learning,  have 
ever  thought  of  sending  one  of  their  members  into  the 
most  eastern  parts  of  Asia,  to  make  what  discoveries 
he  was  able.  To  be  convinced  of  the  utility  of  such 
an  undertaking,  let  them  but  read  the  relations  of  their 
own  travellers.  It  will  there  be  found,  that  they  are 
as  often  deceived  themselves  as  they  attempt  to  deceive 


ESSAYS.  167 

others.  The  merchants  tell  us,  perhaps,  the  price  of 
different  commodities,  the  methods  of  bailing  them  up, 
and  the  properest  manner  for  a  European  to  preserve 
his  health  in  the  country.  The  missionary,  on  the  other 
hand,  informs  us  with  what  pleasure  the  country  to 
which  he  was  sent  embraced  Christianity,  and  the  num- 
bers he  converted ;  what  methods  he  took  to  keep  Lent  in 
a  region  where  there  were  no  fish,or  the  shifts  he  made  to 
celebrate  the  rites  of  his  religion,  in  places  where  there 
was  neither  bread  nor  wine ;  such  accounts,  with  the 
usual  appendage  of  marriages  and  funerals,  inscriptions, 
rivers,  and  mountains,  make  up  the  whole  of  a  Euro- 
pean traveller's  diary ;  but  as  to  all  the  secrets  of 
which  the  inhabitants  are  possessed,  those  are  univer- 
sally attributed  to  magic ;  and  when  the  traveller  can 
give  no  other  account  of  the  wonders  he  sees  performed, 
he  very  contentedly  ascribes  them  to  the  devil. 

It  was  a  usual  observation  of  Boyle,  the  English 
chemist,  that,  if  every  artist  would  but  discover  what 
new  observations  occurred  to  him  in  the  exercise  of  his 
trade,  philosophy  would  thence  gain  innumerable  im- 
provements. It  may  be  observed  with  still  greater 
justice,  that,  if  the  useful  knowledge  of  every  country, 
howsoever  barbarous,  was  gleaned  by  a  judicious  ob- 
server, the  advantages  would  be  inestimable.  Are 
there  not,  even  in  Europe,  many  useful  inventions 
known  or  practised  but  in  one  place  ?  Their  instru- 
ment, as  an  example,  for  cutting  down  corn  in  Germany, 
is  much  more  handy  and  expeditious,  in  my  opinion, 
than  the  sickle  used  in  England.  The  cheap  and  ex- 
peditious manner  of  making  vinegar,  without  previous 


468  ESSAYS. 

fermentation,  is  known  only  in  a  part  of  France.  li 
such  discoveries  therefore  remain  still  to  be  known  at 
home,  what  funds  of  knowledge  might  not  be  collected 
in  countries  yet  unexplored,  or  only  passed  through  by 
ignorant  travellers  in  hasty  caravans. 

The  caution  with  which  foreigners  are  received  in 
Asia,  may  be  alleged  as  an  objection  to  such  a  design. 
But  how  readily  have  several  European  merchants 
found  admission  into  regions  the  most  suspicious,  under 
the  character  of  sanjapins,  or  northern  pilgrims  ?  To 
such  not  even  China  itself  denies  access. 

To  send  out  a  traveller  properly  qualified  for  these 
purposes,  might  be  an  object  of  national  concern ;  it 
would,  in  some  measure,  repair  the  breaches  made  by 
ambition ;  and  might  show  that  there  were  still  some 
who  boasted  a  greater  name  than  that  of  patriots,  who 
professed  themselves  lovers  of  men. 

The  only  difficulty  would  remain  in  choosing  a  pro- 
per person  for  so  arduous  an  enterprise.  He  should  be 
A  man  of  philosophical  turn ;  one  apt  to  deduce  conse- 
quences of  general  utility  from  particular  occurrences ; 
neither  swollen  with  pride,  nor  hardened  by  prejudice ; 
neither  wedded  to  one  particular  system,  nor  instructed 
only  in  one  particular  science ;  neither  wholly  a  bo- 
tanist, nor  quite  an  antiquarian,  his  mind  should  be 
tinctured  with  miscellaneous  knowledge ;  and  his  man-= 
ners  humanized  by  an  intercourse  with  men.  He  should 
be,  in  some  measure,  an  enthusiast  to  the  design :  fond 
of  travelling,  from  a  rapid  imagination,  and  an  innate 
love  of  change :  furnished  with  a  body  capable  of  sus- 
taining Jtery  fatigue,  and  a  heart  not  easily  terrified  at 
danger. 


ESSAYS.  469 

A.  REVERIE  AT  THE  BOAR'S- HE  AD  TAVERN,  IN 
EASTCHEAr. 

THE  improvements  we  make  in  mental  acquirements 
only  render  us  each  day  more  sensible  of  the  defects  of 
our  constitution :  with  this  in  view,  therefore,  let  us 
often  recur  to  the  amusements  of  youth ;  endeavor  tc 
forget  age  and  wisdom,  and,  as  far  as  innocence  goes, 
be  as  much  a  boy  as  the  best  of  them. 

Let  idle  declaimers  mourn  over  the  degeneracy  of 
the  age,  but,  in  my  opinion,  every  age  is  the  same. 
This  I  am  sure  of,  that  man,  in  every  season,  is  a  poor, 
fretful  being,  with  no  other  means  to  escape  the  calam- 
ities of  the  times,  but  by  endeavoring  to  forget  them ; 
for,  if  he  attempts  to  resist,  he  is  certainly  undone.  If 
I  feel  poverty  and  pain,  I  am  not  so  hardy  as  to  quarrel 
with  the  executioner,  even  while  under  correction ;  I 
find  myself  no  way  disposed  to  make  fine  speeches, 
while  I  am  making  wry  faces.  In  a  word,  let  me  drink 
when  the  fit  is  on,  to  make  me  insensible ;  and  drink 
when  it  is  over,  for  joy  that  I  feel  pain  no  longer. 

The  character  of  old  Falstaff,  even  with  all  his  faults, 
gives  me  more  consolation  than  the  most  studied  efforts 
of  wisdom  :  I  here  behold  an  agreeable  old  fellow,  for- 
getting age,  and  showing  me  the  way  to  be  young  at 
sixty-five.  Sure  I  am  well  able  to  be  as  merry,  though 
not  so  comical  as  he.  Is  it  not  in  my  power  to  have, 
though  not  so  much  wit,  at  least  as  much  vivacity? 
Age,  care,  wisdom,  reflection,  begone  !  —  I  give  you  to 
the  winds.  Let 's  have  t'  other  bottle  :  here 's  to  the 
memory  of  Shakspeare,  Falstaff,  and  all  the  merry  meu 
of  Eastcheap. 

40 


470  ESSAYS. 

Such  were  the  reflections  that  naturally  arose  while 
JL  sat  at  the  Boar's-head  tavern,  still  kept  at  Eastcheap. 
Here,  by  a  pleasant  fire,  in  the  very  room  where  old 
Falstaff  cracked  his  jokes,  in  the  very  chair  which  was 
sometimes  honored  by  Prince  Henry,  and  sometimes 
DO! luted  by  his  immoral,  merry  companions,  I  sat  and 
ruminated  on  the  follies  of  youth  ;  wished  to  be  young 
again  ;  but  was  resolved  to  make  the  best  of  life  while 
it  lasted,  and  now  and  then  compared  past  and  present 
times  together.  I  considered  myself  as  the  only  living 
representative  of  the  old  knight ;  and  transported  my 
imagination  back  to  the  times  when  the  prince  and  he 
gave  life  to  the  revel,  and  made  even  debauchery  not 
disgusting.  The  room  also  conspired  to  throw  my  re- 
flection back  into  antiquity ;  the  oak  floor,  the  Gothic 
windows,  and  the  ponderous  chimney-piece,  had  long 
withstood  the  tooth  of  time;  the  watchmen  had  gone 
twelve ;  my  companions  had  all  stolen  off,  and  none 
now  remained  with  me  but  the  landlord.  From  him  I 
could  have  wished  to  know  the  history  of  a  tavern  that 
had  such  a  long  succession  of  customers ;  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  an  account  of  this  kind  would  be  a 
pleasing  contrast  of  the  manners  of  different  ages  ;  but 
my  landlord  could  give  me  no  information.  He  con- 
tinued to  doze,  and  sot,  and  tell  a  tedious  story,  as  most 
other  landlords  usually  do  ;  and,  though  he  said  nothing, 
yet  was  never  silent ;  one  good  joke  followed  another 
srood  joke,  and  the  best  joke  of  all  was  generally  begun 
towards  the  end  of  a  bottle.  I  found  at  last,  however, 
his  wine  and  his  conversation  operate  by  degrees  :  he 
insensibly  began  to  alter  his  appearance.  His  crarat 


E85AYS.  471 

deemed  quilled  into  a  ruff,  and  his  breeches  swelled  into 
a  fardingale.  I  now  fancied  him  changing  sexes  ;  and, 
as  my  eyes  began  to  close  in  slumber,  I  imagined  my 
fat  landlord  actually  converted  into  as  fat  a  landlady. 
However,  sleep  made  but  few  changes  in  my  situation ; 
the  tavern,  the  apartment,  and  the  table,  continued  as 
before ;  nothing  suffered  mutation  but  my  host,  who 
was  fairly  altered  into  a  gentlewoman^  whom  I  knew 
to  "be  Dame  Quickly,  mistress  of  this  tavern  in  the  days 
of  Sir  John ;  and  the  liquor  we  were  drinking,  which 
seemed  converted  into  sack  and  sugar. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Quickly,"  cried  I,  (for  I  knew  her 
perfectly  well  at  first  sight),  "  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see 
you.  How  have  you  left  Falstaff,  Pistol,  and  the  rest 
of  our  friends  below  stairs  ?  Brave  and  hearty,  I 
hope  ?  "  "  In  good  sooth,"  replied  she,  "  he  did  deserve 
to  live  forever ;  but  he  maketh  foul  work  on 't  where 
he  hath  flitted.  Queen  Proserpine  and  he  have  quar- 
relled, for  his  attempting  a  rape  upon  her  divinity  ;  and 
were  it  not  that  she  still  had  bowels  of  compassion,  it 
more  than  seems  probable  he  might  have  now  been 
sprawling  in  Tartarus." 

I  now  found  that  spirits  still  preserve  the  frailties  of 
the  flesh ;  and  that,  according  to  the  laws  of  criticism 
and  dreaming,  ghosts  have  been  known  to  be  guilty  of 
even  more  than  Platonic  affection ;  wherefore,  as  I 
found  her  too  much  moved  on  such  a  topic  to  proceed, 
I  was  resolved  to  change  the  subject ;  and,  desiring  she 
would  pledge  me  in  a  bumper,  observed  with  a  sigh, 
that  our  sack  was  nothing  now  to  what  it  was  in  former 
days.  "Ah,  Mrs.  Quickly,  those  were  merry  times 
vrhen  you  drew  sack  for  Prince  Henry;  men  were 


472  ESSAYS. 

twice  as  strong,  and  twice  as  wise,  and  much  braver* 
and  ten  thousand  times  more  charitable,  than  now. 
Those  were  the  times !  The  battle  of  Agincourt  was  a 
victory  indeed !  Ever  since  that,  we  have  only  been 
degenerating ;  and  I  have  lived  to  see  the  day  when 
drinking  is  no  longer  fashionable.  When  men  wear 
clean  shirts,  and  women  show  their  necks  and  arms,  all 
ire  degenerated,  Mrs.  Quickly  ;  and  we  shall  probably, 
in  another  century,  be  frittered  away  into  beaux  or  mon- 
keys. Had  you  been  on  earth  to  see  what  I  have  seen, 
it  would  congeal  all  the  blood  in  your  body  (your  soul, 
I  mean).  Why,  our  very  nobility  now  have  the  in- 
tolerable arrogance,  in  spite  of  what  is  every  day  remon- 
strated from  the  press ;  our  very  nobility,  I  say,  have 
the  assurance  to  frequent  assemblies,  and  presume  to 
be  as  merry  as  the  vulgar.  See,  my  very  friends  have 
scarce  manhood  enough  to  sit  till  eleven ;  and  I  only 
am  left  to  make  a  night  on  't.  Pr'ythee  do  me  the 
favor  to  console  me  a  little  for  their  absence  by  the 
story  of  your  own  adventures,  or  the  history  of  the 
tavern  where  we  are  now  sitting.  I  fancy  the  narra^ 
tive  may  have  something  singular." 

"  Observe  this  apartment,"  interrupted  my  com- 
panion, "of  neat  device  and  excellent  workmanship. 
In  this  room  I  have  lived,  child,  woman,  and  ghost, 
more  than  three  hundred  years ;  I  am  ordered  by  Pluto 
to  keep  an  annual  register  of  every  transaction  that 
passeth  here ;  and  I  have  whilom  compiled  three  hund- 
red tomes,  which  eftsoons  may  be  submitted  to  thy  re- 
gards." "  None  of  your  whiloms  nor  eftsoons,  Mrs. 
Quickly,  if  you  please,"  I  replied  ;  "  I  know  you  can 
talk  every  whit  as  well  as  I  can,  for,  as  you  have  lived 


ESSAYS.  473 

Hare  so  long,  it  is  but  natural  to  suppose  you  should 
learn  the  conversation  of  the  company.  Believe  me, 
dame,  at  best,  you  have  neither  too  much  sense,  nor 
too  much  language,  to  spare ;  so  give  me  both  as  well 
as  you  can ;  but  first,  my  service  to  you ;  old  women 
should  water  their  clay  a  little  now  and  then  ;  and  now 
to  your  story," 

"The  story  of  my  own  adventures,"  replied  the 
vision,"  is  but  short  and  unsatisfactory  ;  for,  believe  me, 
Mr.  Rigmarole,  believe  me,  a  woman  with  a  butt  of 
sack  at  her  elbow  is  never  long-lived.  Sir  John's  death 
afflicted  me  to  such  a  degree,  that  I  sincerely  believe, 
to  drown  sorrow,  I  drank  more  liquor  myself  than  I 
drew  for  my  customers ;  my  grief  was  sincere,  and  the 
sack  was  excellent.  The  prior  of  a  neighboring  con- 
vent (for  our  priors  then  had  as  much  power  as  a  Mid- 
dlesex justice  now),  he,  I  say,  it  was  who  gave  me 
license  for  keeping  a  disorderly  house ;  upon  condition 
that  I  should  never  make  hard  bargains  with  the  clergy  ; 
that  he  should  have  a  bottle  of  sack  every  morning, 
and  the  liberty  of  confessing  which  of  my  girls  he 
thought  proper  in  private  every  night.  I  had  continued 
for  several  years  to  pay  this  tribute ;  and  he,  it  must 
be  confessed,  continued  as  rigorously  to  exact  it.  I 
grew  old  insensibly  ;  my  customers  continued,  however, 
to  compliment  my  looks  while  I  was  by,  but  I  could 
hear  them  say  I  was  wearing  when  my  back  was  turn 
ed.  The  prior,  however,  still  was  constant,  and  so 
were  half  his  convent ;  but  one  fatal  morning  he  missed 
the  usual  beverage,  for  1  had  incautiously  drunk  over- 
night the  last  bottle  myself.  What  will  you  have  on'U 
40* 


474  ESSAYS. 

The  very  next  day  Doll  Tearsheet  and  I  were  sent  tc 
the  house  of  correction,  and  accused  of  keeping  a  low 
bawdy-house.  In  short,  we  were  so  well  purified  there 
with  stripes,  mortification,  and  penance,  that  we  were 
afterward  utterly  unfit  for  worldly  conversation :  though 
sack  would  have  killed  me,  had  I  stuck  to  it,  yet  I 
soon  died  for  want  of  a  drop  of  something  comfortable, 
and  fairly  left  my  body  to  the  care  of  the  beadle. 

"  Such  is  my  own  history ;  but  that  of  the  tavern, 
where  I  have  ever  since  been  stationed,  affords  greater 
variety.  In  the  history  of  this,  which  is  one  of  the 
oldest  in  London,  you  may  view  the  different  manners, 
pleasures,  and  follies  of  men,  at  different  periods. 
You  will  find  mankind  neither  better  nor  worse  now 
than  formerly ;  the  vices  of  an  uncivilized  people  are 
generally  more  detestable,  though  not  so  frequent,  as 
those  in  polite  society.  It  is  the  same  luxury  which 
formerly  stuffed  your  aldermen  with  plum-porridge, 
aud  now  crams  him  with  turtle.  It  is  the  same  low 
ambition  that  formerly  induced  a  courtier  to  give  up 
his  religion  to  please  his  king,  and  now  persuades  him 
to  give  up  his  conscience  to  please  his  minister.  It  is 
the  same  vanity  that  formerly  stained  our  ladies'  cheeks 
and  necks  with  woad,  and  now  paints  them  with  car- 
mine. Your  ancient  Briton  formerly  powdered  his 
hair  with  red  earth,  like  brick-dust,  in  order  to  appear 
frightful ;  your  modern  Briton  cuts  his  hair  on  the 
crown,  and  plasters  it  with  hogs'-lard  and  flour ;  and 
this  to  make  him  look  killing.  It  is  the  same  vanity, 
the  same  folly,  and  the  same  vice,  only  appearing  dif- 
ferent, as  viewed  through  the  glass  of  fashion.  In  a 
word,  all  mankind  are  a " 


ESSAYS.  475 

"Sure  the  woman  is  dreaming,"  interrupted  I  — 
"  None  of  your  reflections,  Mrs.  Quickly,  if  you  love 
me ;  they  only  give  me  the  spleen.  Tell  me  your  his- 
tory at  once.  I  love  stories,  but  hate  reasoning." 

"  If  you  please,  then,  sir,"  returned  my  companion, 
"  I'll  read  you  an  abstract,  which  I  made,  of  the  three 
hundred  volumes  I  mentioned  just  now  : 

"  My  body  was  no  sooner  laid  in  the  dust,  than  the 
prior  and  several  of  his  convent  came  to  purify  the 
tavern  from  the  pollutions  with  which  they  said  I  had 
filled  it.  Masses  were  said  in  every  room,  relics  were 
exposed  upon  every  piece  of  furniture,  and  the  whole 
house  washed  with  a  deluge  of  holy  water.  My  habi- 
tation was  soon  converted  into  a  monastery ;  instead  of 
customers  now  applying  for  sack  and  sugar,  my  rooms 
were  crowded  with  images,  relics,  saints,  whores,  and 
friars.  Instead  of  being  a  scene  of  occasional  debau- 
chery, it  was  now  filled  with  continued  lewdness.  The 
prior  led  the  fashion,  and  the  whole  convent  imitated 
his  pious  example.  Matrons  came  hither  to  confess 
their  sins,  and  to  commit  new.  Virgins  came  hither 
who  seldom  went  virgins  away.  Nor  was  this  a  con- 
vent peculiarly  wicked ;  every  convent  at  that  period 
was  equally  fond  of  pleasure,  and  gave  a  boundless 
loose  to  appetite.  The  laws  allowed  it ;  each  priest  had 
a  right  to  a  favorite  companion,  and  a  power  of  discard- 
ing her  as  often  as  he  pleased.  The  laity  grumbled, 
quarrelled  with  their  wives  and  daughters,  hated  their 
confessors,  and  maintained  them  in  opulence  and  ease. 
These,  these  were  happy  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole ;  these 
were  times  of  piety,  bravery,  and  simplicity  !  " — a  Not 
so  very  happy,  neither,  good  madam ;  pretty  much  like 


476  ESSAYS. 

the  present ;  those  that  labor,  starve ;  and  those  that 
do  nothing  wear  fine  clothes  and  live  in  luxury." 

"  In  this  manner  the  fathers  lived,  for  some  years, 
without  molestation ;  they  transgressed,  confessed  them- 
selves to  each  other,  and  were  forgiven.  One  evening, 
however,  our  prior  keeping  a  lady  of  distinction  some- 
what too  long  at  confession,  her  husband  unexpectedly 
came  upon  them,  and  testified  all  the  indignation  which 
was  natural  upon  such  an  occasion.  The  prior  assured 
the  gentleman  that  it  was  the  devil  who  had  put  it  into 
his  heart ;  and  the  lady  was  very  certain,  that  she  was 
under  the  influence  of  magic,  or  she  could  never  have 
behaved  in  so  unfaithful  a  manner.  The  husband,  how- 
ever, was  not  to  be  put  off  by  such  evasions,  but  sum- 
moned both  before  the  tribunal  of  justice.  His  proofs 
were  flagrant,  and  he  expected  large  damages.  Such, 
indeed,  he  had  a  right  to  expect,  were  the  tribunals  of 
those  days  constituted  in  the  same  manner  as  they  are 
now.  The  cause  of  the  priest  was  to  be  tried  before 
an  assembly  of  priests ;  and  a  layman  was  to  expect  re- 
dress only  from  their  impartiality  and  candor.  What 
plea  then  do  you  think  the  prior  made  to  obviate  this 
accusation  ?  He  denied  the  fact,  and  challenged  the 
plaintiff  to  try  the  merits  of  their  cause  by  single  com- 
bat. It  was  a  little  hard,  you  may  be  sure,  upon  the 
poor  gentleman,  not  only  to  be  made  a  cuckold,  but  to 
be  obliged  to  fight  a  duel  into  the  bargain  ;  yet  such  was 
the  justice  of  the  times.  The  prior  threw  down  his 
glove,  and  the  injured  husband  was  obliged  to  take  it  up, 
m  token  of  his  accepting  the  challenge.  Upon  this  the 
priest  supplied  his  champion,  for  it  was  not  lawful  for 
the  clergy  to  fight ;  and  the  defendant  and  plaintiff,  ac- 


ESSAYS.  477 

cording  to  custom,  were  put  in  prison  ;  both  ordered  to 
fast  and  pray,  every  method  being  previously  used  to  in- 
duce both  to  a  confession  of  the  truth.  After  a  month's 
imprisonment,  the  hair  of  each  was  cut,  their  bodies 
anointed  with  oil,  the  field  of  battle  appointed,  and 
guarded  by  soldiers,  while  his  majesty  presided  over 
the  whole  in  person.  Both  the  champions  were  sworn 
not  to  seek  victory  either  by  fraud  or  magic.  They 
prayed  and  confessed  upon  their  knees  ;  and,  after  these 
ceremonies,  the  rest  was  left  to  the  courage  and  conduct 
of  the  combatants.  As  the  champion  whom  the  prior 
had  pitched  upon,  had  fought  six  or  eight  times  upon 
similar  occasions,  it  was  no  way  extraordinary  to  find 
him  victorious  in  the  present  combat.  In  short,  the  hus- 
band was  discomfited ;  he  was  taken  from  the  field  of 
battle,  stripped  to  his  shirt,  and,  after  one  of  his  legs 
was  cut  off,  as  justice  ordained  in  such  cases,  he  was 
hanged  as  a  terror  to  future  offenders.  These,  these 
were  the  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole !  you  see  how  much 
more  just,  and  wise,  and  valiant,  our  ancestors  were 
than  we.''  "  I  rather  fancy,  madam,  that  the  times 
then  were  pretty  much  like  our  own ;  where  a  multi- 
plicity of  laws  give  a  judge  as  much  power  as  a  want 
of  law ;  since  he  is  ever  sure  to  find  among  the  num- 
ber some  to  countenance  his  partiality." 

"  Our  convent,  victorious  over  their  enemies,  now 
gave  a  loose  to  every  demonstration  of  joy.  The  lady 
became  a  nun,  the  prior  was  made  a  bishop,  and  three 
Wickliffites  were  burned  in  the  illuminations  and  fire' 
works  that  were  made  on  the  present  occasion.  Ou 
convent  now  began  to  enjoy  a  very  high  degree  of  repr 


X 

478  ESSAYS. 

tation.     There  was  not  one  in  London  that  had  the 
character  of  hating  heretics  so  much  as  ours.     Ladies 
of  the  first  distinction  chose  from  our  convent  their 
confessors ;    in  short,   it  flourished,   and   might  have 
flourished  to  this  hour,  but  for  a  fatal  accident,  which 
terminated  in  its  overthrow.    The  lady  whom  the  prior 
had  placed  in  a  nunnery,  and  whom  he  continued  to 
visit  for  some  time  with  great  punctuality,  began  at  last 
to  perceive  that  she  was  quite  forsaken.    Secluded  from 
conversation,  as  usual,  she  now  entertained  the  visions 
of  a  devotee ;  found  herself  strangely  disturbed ;  but 
hesitated  in  determining,  whether  she  was  possessed  by 
an  angel  or  a  demon.     She  was  not  long  in  suspense ; 
for,  upon  vomiting  a  large  quantity  of  crooked  pins,  and 
finding  the  palms  of  her  hands  turned  outwards,  she 
quckly  concluded  that  she  was  possessed  by  the  devil. 
She  soon  lost  entirely  the  use  of  speech ;  and  when  she 
seemed  to  speak,  every  body  that  was  present  perceived 
that  her  voice  was  not  her  own,  but  that  of  the  devil 
within  her.     In  short,  she  was  bewitched  ;  and  all  the 
difficulty  lay  in  determining  who  it  could  be  that  be- 
witched her.     The  nuns  and  the  monks  all  demanded 
the  magician's  name,  but  the  devil  made  no  reply  ;  for 
he  knew  they  had  no  authority  to  ask  questions.     By 
the  rules  of  witchcraft,  when  an  evil  spirit  has  taken 
possession,   he  may  refuse   to  answer  any  questions 
asked  him,  unless  they  are  put  by  a  bishop,  and  to 
these  he  is  obliged  to  reply.    A  bishop,  therefore,  was 
sent  for,  and  now  the  whole  secret  came  out ;  the  devil 
reluctantly  owned  that  he  was  a  servant  of  the  prior ; 
that  by  his  command  he  resided  in  his  present  liabita- 


ESSAYS.  479 

tion ;  and  that,  without  his  command,  he  was  resolved 
to  keep  in  possession.  The  bishop  was  an  able  exor- 
cist ;  he  drove  the  devil  out  by  force  of  mystical  arms ; 
the  prior  was  arranged  for  witchcraft ;  the  witnesses 
were  strong  and  nuncerous  against  him,  not  less  than 
fourteen  persons  being  by  who  heard  the  devil  speak 
Latin.  There  was  no  resisting  such  a  cloud  of  wit- 
nesses; the  prior  was  condemned;  and  he  who  had 
assisted  at  so  many  burnings,  was  burned  himself  in 
turn.  These  were  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole  ;  the  people  of 
those  times  were  not  infidels,  as  now,  but  sincere  believ- 
ers !  "  —  "  Equally  faulty  with  ourselves,  they  believed 
what  the  devil  was  pleased  to  tell  them ;  and  we  seem 
resolved,  at  last,  to  believe  neither  G-od  nor  devil." 

"  After  such  a  stain  upon  the  convent,  it  was  not  to 
be  supposed  it  could  subsist  any  longer ;  the  fathers  were 
ordered  to  decamp,  and  the  house  was  once  again  con- 
verted into  a  tavern.  The  king  conferred  it  on  one  of 
his  cast-off  mistresses  ;  she  was  constituted  landlady  by 
royal  authority  ;  and,  as  the  tavern  was  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  court,  and  the  mistress  a  very  polite  woman, 
it  began  to  have  more  business  than  ever,  and  some- 
times took  not  less  than  four  shillings  a-day. 

"  But  perhaps  you  are  desirous  of  knowing  what  were 
the  peculiar  qualifications  of  women  of  fashion  at  that 
period ;  and  in  a  description  of  the  present  landlady, 
you  will  have  a  tolerable  idea  of  all  the  rest.  This  lady 
was  the  daughter  of  a  nobleman,  and  received  such  an 
education  in  the  country  as  became  her  quality,  beauty, 
and  great  expectations.  She  could  make  shifts  and  hose 
for  herself  and  all  the  servants  of  the  family,  when  she 


480  ESSAYS. 

was  twelve  years  old.  She  knew  the  names  of  the  four 
and-twenty  letters,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  bewitch 
her,  and  this  was  a  greater  piece  of  learning  than  any 
lady  in  the  whole  country  could  pretend  to.  She  was 
always  up  early,  and  saw  breakfast  served  in  the  great 
hall  by  six  o'clock.  At  this  scene  of  festivity  she  gener- 
ally improved  good-humor,  by  telling  her  dreams,  relat- 
ing stories  of  spirits,  several  of  which  she  he;  self  had 
teen,  and  one  of  which  she  was  reported  to  have  killed 
with  a  black-hafted  knife.  From  hence  she  usually  went 
to  make  pastry  in  the  larder,  and  here  she  was  followed 
by  her  sweet-hearts,  who  were  much  helped  on  in  con- 
versation by  struggling  with  her  for  kisses.  About  ten, 
miss  generally  went  to  play  at  hot-cockles  and  blind- 
man's  buff  in  the  parlor ;  and  when  the  young  folks  (for 
they  seldom  played  at  hot-cockles  when  grown  old)  were 
tired  of  such  amusements,  the  gentleman  entertained 
miss  with  the  history  of  their  greyhounds,  bear-baitings, 
and  victories  at  cudgel-playing.  If  the  weather  was  fine, 
they  ran  at  the  ring,  or  shot  at  butts,  while  miss  held  in 
her  hand  a  riband,  with  which  she  adorned  the  con- 
queror. Her  mental  qualifications  were  exactly  fitted  to 
her  external  accomplishments.  Before  she  was  fifteen 
sh«  could  tell  the  story  of  Jack  the  Giant  Killer ;  could 
name  every  mountain  that  was  inhabited  by  fairies ; 
knew  a  witch  at  first  sight ;  and  could  repeat  four  Latin 
prayers  without  a  prompter.  Her  dress  was  perfectly 
fashionable ;  her  arms  and  her  hair  were  completely 
covered ;  a  monstrous  muff  was  put  round  her  neck,  so 
that  her  head  seemed  like  that  of  John  the  Baptist 
placed  in  a  charger.  In  short,  when  completely  equip- 


ESSAYS.  481 

ped,  her  appearance  was  so  very  modest,  that  she  dis- 
covered little  more  than  her  nose.  These  were  the 
times,  Mr.  Rigmarole,  when  every  lady  that  had  a  good 
nose  might  set  up  for  a  beauty ;  when  every  woman  that 
could  tell  stories  might  be  cried  up  for  a  wit."  "  I  am 
as  much  displeased  at  those  dresses  which  conceal  too 
much,  as  at  those  which  discover  too  much ;  I  am  equal- 
ly an  enemy  to  a  female  dunce,  or  a  female  pedant." 

"  You  may  be  sure  that  miss  chose  a  husband  with 
qualifications  resembling  her  own ;  she  pitched  upon  a 
courtier  equally  remarkable  for  hunting  and  drinking, 
who  had  given  several  proofs  of  his  great  virility  among 
the  daughters  of  his  tenants  and  domestics.  They  fell 
in  love  at  first  sight  (for  such  was  the  gallantry  of  the 
time?),  were  married,  came  to  court,  and  madam  ap^. 
pearftd  with  superior  qualifications.  The  king  was  struck 
with  her  beauty.4  All  property  was  at  the  king's  com- 
mand ;  the  husband  was  obliged  to  resign  all  preten- 
sions in  his  wife  to  the  sovereign  whom  God  anointed, 
to  commit  adultery  where  he  thought  proper.  The  king 
loved  her  for  some  time ;  but,  at  length,  repenting  of 
his  misdeeds,  and  instigated  by  his  father  confessor,  from 
a  principle  of  conscience,  removed  her  from  his  levee  to 
the  bar  of  this  tavern,  and  took  a  new  mistress  in  he* 
stead.  Let  it  not  surprise  you  to  behold  the  mistress  of  a 
king  degraded  to  so  humble  an  office.  As  the  ladies  had 
no  mental  accomplishments,  a  good  face  was  enough  to 
raise  them  to  the  royal  couch ;  and  she  who  was  this  day 
a  royal  mistress,  might  the  next,  when  her  beauty  pall- 
ed upon  enjoyment,  be  doomed  to  infamy  and  want. 

"  Under  the  care  of  this  lady,  the  tavern  grew  into 


482  ESSAYS. 

great  reputation  ;  the  courtiers  had  not  yet  learned  to 
game,  but  they  paid  it  off  by  drinking ;  drunkenness  is 
ever  the  vice  of  a  barbarous,  and  gaming  of  a  luxurious 
age.  They  had  not  such  frequent  entertainments  as  the 
moderns  have,  but  were  more  expensive  and  more  luxu- 
rious in  those  they  had.  All  their  fooleries  were  more 
elaborate,  and  more  admired  by  the  great  and  the  vul- 
gar, than  now.  A  courtier  has  been  known  to  spend 
his  whole  fortune  at  a  single  combat ;  a  king  to  mort- 
gage his  dominions  to  furnish  out  the  frippery  of  a  tour- 
nament. There  were  certain  days  appointed  for  riot 
and  debauchery,  and  to  be  sober  at  such  times  was  re- 
puted a  crime.  Kings  themselves  set  the  example  ;  and 
I  have  seen  monarchs  in  this  room  drunk  before  the  en- 
tertainment was  half  concluded.  These  were  the  times, 
sir,  when  the  kings  kept  mistresses,  and  got  drunk  in 
public ;  they  were  too  plain  and  simple  in  those  happy 
times  to  hide  their  vices,  and  act  the  hypocrite  as  now." 
"  Lord,  Mrs.  Quickly !  "  interrupting  her,  "  I  expected 
to  hear  a  story,  and  here  you  are  going  to  tell  me  I 
know  not  what  of  times  and  vices ;  pr'ythee  let  me  en- 
treat thee  once  more  to  waive  reflections,  and  give  thy 
history  without  deviation." 

"  No  lady  upon  earth,"  continued  my  visionary  cor- 
respondent, *'  knew  how  to  put  off  her  damaged  wine 
or  women  with  more  art  than  she.  When  these  grew 
flat,  or  those  paltry,  it  was  but  changing  their  names  ; 
the  wine  became  excellent,  and  the  girls  agreeable.  She 
was  also  possessed  of  the  engaging  leer,  the  chuck  under 
the  chin,  winked  at  a  double  entendre,  could  nick  the 
opportunity  of  calling  for  something  comfortable,  uiid 


ESSAYS.  483 

perfectly  understood  the  distinct  moments  when  to  with- 
draw. The  gallants  of  those  times  pretty  much  re- 
sembled the  bloods  of  ours  ;  they  were  fond  of  pleasure, 
but  quite  ignorant  of  the  art  of  refining  upon  it ;  thus  a 
court-bawd  of  those  times  resembled  the  common,  low- 
lived harridan  of  a  modern  bagnio.  Witness,  ye  powers 
of  debauchery !  how  often  have  I  been  present  at  the 
various  appearances  of  drunkenness,  riot,  guilt,  and 
brutality.  A  tavern  is  a  true  picture  of  human  infirm- 
ity ;  in  history  we  find  only  one  side  of  the  age  exhi- 
bited to  our  view ;  but  in  the  accounts  of  a  tavern  we 
see  every  age  equally  absurd  and  equally  vicious. 

"  Upon  this  lady's  decease,  the  tavern  was  success- 
ively occupied  by  adventurers,  bullies,  pimps,  and  game- 
sters. Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  reign  of  Henry 
VII.  gaming  was  more  universally  practised  in  England 
than  even  now.  Kings  themselves  have  been  known 
to  play  off,  at  primero,  not  only  all  the  money  and  jewels 
they  could  part  with,  but>  the  very  images  in  churches. 
The  last  Henry  played  away,  in  this  very  room,  not 
only  the  four  great  bells  of  St.  Paul's  cathedral,  but  the 
fine  image  of  St.  Paul,  which  stood  upon  the  top  of  the 
spire,  to  Sir  Miles  Partridge,  who  took  them  down  the 
next  day,  and  sold  them  by  auction.  Have  you  then 
any  cause  to  regret  being  born  in  the  times  you  now 
live  in,  or  do  you  still  believe  that  human  nature  con- 
tinues to  run  on  declining  every  age  ?  If  we  observe 
the  actions  of  the  busy  part  of  mankind,  your  ancestors 
will  be  found  infinitely  more  gross,  servile,  and  even 
dishonest,  than  you.  If,  forsaking  history,  we  only 
trace  them  in  their  hours  of  amusement  and  dissipation, 
we  shall  find  them  more  sensual,  more  entirely  devoted 
to  pleasure,  and  infinitely  more  selfish. 


484  KSSAYS. 

"  The  last  hostess  of  note  I  find  upon  record  was 
Jane  Rouse.  She  was  born  among  the  lower  ranks  of 
the  people  ;  and  by  frugality  and  extreme  complaisance, 
contrived  to  acquire  a  moderate  fortune  ;  this  she  might 
have  enjoyed  for  many  years,  had  she  not  unfortu- 
nately quarrelled  with  one  of  her  neighbors,  a  woman 
who  was  in  high  repute  for  sanctity  through  the  whole 
parish.  In  the  times  of  which  I  speak,  two  women 
seldom  quarrelled  that  one  did  not  accuse  the  other  of 
witchcraft,  and  she  who  first  contrived  to  vomi';  crooked 
pins  was  sure  to  come  off  victorious.  The  scandal  of  a 
modern  tea-table  differs  widely  from  the  scandal  of 
former  times ;  the  fascination  of  a  lady's  eyes,  at  pre- 
sent, is  regarded  as  a  compliment ;  but  if  a  lady  former- 
ly should  be  accused  of  having  witchcraft  in  her  eyes, 
it  were  much  better,  both  for  her  soul  and  body,  that 
she  had  no  eyes  at  all. 

"  In  short,  Jane  Rouse  was  accused  of  witchcraft, 
and  though  she  made  the  best'  defence  she  could,  it  was 
all  to  no  purpose ;  she  was  taken  from  her  own  bar  to 
the  bar  of  the  Old  Bailey,  condemned,  and  executed 
accordingly.  These  were  times,  indeed!  when  even 
women  could  not  scold  in  safety. 

"  Since  her  time  the  tavern  underwent  several  revo- 
lutions, according  to  the  spirit  of  the  times,  or  to  the 
disposition  of  the  reigning  monarch.  It  was  this  day  a 
brothel,  and  the  next  a  conventicle  for  enthusiasts.  It 
was  one  year  noted  for  harboring  whigs,  and  the  next 
infamous  for  a  retreat  to  tories.  Some  years  ago  it 
was  in  high  vogue,  but  at  present  it  seems  declining. 
This  only  may  be  remarked  in  general,  that  whenever 
taverns  flourish  most,  the  times  are  then  most  extra va- 


ESSAYS.  485 

gant  and  luxurious."  "  Lord,  Mrs.  Quickly !  "  inter- 
rupted I,  "you  have  really  deceived  me ;  I  expected  a 
romance,  and  here  you  have  been  this  half-hour  giving 
me  only  a  description  of  the  spirit  of  the  times  ;  if  you 
have  nothing  but  tedious  remarks  to  communicate,  seek 
some  other  hearer ;  I  am  determined  to  hearken  only 
to  stories." 

I  had  scarce  concluded,  when  my  eyes  and  ears  seem- 
ed opened  to  my  landlord,  who  had  been  all  this  while 
giving  me  an  account  of  the  repairs  he  had  made  in 
the  house,  and  was  now  got  into  the  story  of  the  crack- 
ed glass  in  the  dining-room. 


ON  QUACK  DOCTORS. 

WHATEVER  may  be  the  merits  of  the  English  In 
other  sciences,  they  seem  peculiarly  excellent  in  the 
art  of  healing.  There  is  scarcely  a  disorder  incident 
to  humanity,  against  which  our  advertising  doctors  are 
not  possessed  with  a  most  infallible  antidote.  The  pro- 
fessors of  other  arts  confess  the  inevitable  intricacy  of 
things  ;  talk  with  doubt,  and  decide  with  hesitation ;  but 
doubting  is  entirely  unknown  in  medicine :  the  adver- 
tising professors  here  delight  in  cases  of  difficulty ;  be 
the  disorder  ever  so  desperate  or  radical,  you  will  find 
numbers  in  every  street,  who,  by  levelling  a  pill  at  the 
part  affected,  promise  a  certain  cure  without  loss  of  time, 
knowledge  of  a  bedfellow,  or  hinderance  of  business. 

When  I  consider  the  assiduity  of  this  profession, 
their  benevolence  amazes  me.  They  not  only,  in  gene- 
ral, give  their  medicines  for  half  value,  but  use  the 
most  persuasive  remonstrances  to  induce  the  sick  to 
come  and  be  cured.  Sure  there  must  be  something 
41* 


486  ESSAYS. 

strangely  obstinate  in  an  English  patient  who  refuses 
so  much  health  upon  such  easy  terms  !  Does  he  take 
a  pride  in  being  bloated  with  a  dropsy  ?  does  he  find 
pleasure  in  the  alternations  of  an  intermittent  fever  ? 
or  feel  as  much  satisfaction  in  nursing  up  his  gout,  as 
he  found  pleasure  in  acquiring  it  ?  He  must ;  other- 
wise he  would  never  reject  such  repeated  assurances  of 
instant  relief.  What  can  be  more  convincing  than  the 
manner  in  which  the  sick  are  invited  to  be  well  ?  The 
doctor  first  begs  the  most  earnest  attention  of  the  public 
to  what  he  is  going  to  propose ;  he  solemnly  affirms  the 
pill  was  never  found  to  want  success ;  he  produces  a 
list  of  those  who  have  been  rescued  from  the  grave  by 
taking  it.  Yet,  notwithstanding  all  this,  there  are  many 
here  who  now  and  then  think  proper  to  be  sick :  —  only 
sick,  did  I  say  ?  there  are  some  who  even  think  proper 
to  die!  Yes,  by  the  head  of  Confucius,  they  die! 
though  they  might  have  purchased  the  health-restoring 
specific  for  half-a-crown  at  every  corner. 

I  can  never  enough  admire  the  sagacity  of  this  coun- 
try for  the  encouragement  given  to  the  professors  of 
this  art ;  with  what  indulgence  does  she  foster  up  those 
of  her  own  growth,  and  kindly  cherish  those  that  come 
from  abroad!  Like  a  skillful  gardener,  she  invites 
them  from  every  foreign  climate  to  herself.  Here 
every  great  exotic  strikes  root  as  soon  as  imported,  and 
feels  the  genial  beam  of  favor  ;  while  the  mighty  metro- 
polis, like  one  vast  munificent  dunghill,  receives  them 
indiscriminately  to  her  breast,  and  supplies  each  with 
more  than  native  nourishment. 

In  other  countries  the  physician  pretends  to  cure  dis« 


ESSJLTS.  487 

orders  in  the  lump ;  the  same  doctor  who  combats  the 
gout  in  the  toe,  shall  pretend  to  prescribe  for  a  pain  in 
the  head  ;  and  he  who  at  one  time  cures  a  consumption, 
shall  at  another  give  drugs  for  a  dropsy.  How  absurd 
and  ridiculous !  this  is  being  a  mere  jack  of  all  trades. 
Is  the  animal  machine  less  complicated  than  a  brass 
pin  ?  Not  less  than  ten  different  hands  are  required  to 
make  a  brass  pin  ;  and  shall  the  body  be  set  right  by 
one  single  operator  ? 

The  English  are  sensible  of  the  force  of  this  reason- 
ing, they  have  therefore  one  doctor  for  the  eyes,  another 
for  the  toes ;  they  have  their  sciatica  doctors,  and  in- 
oculating doctors  ;  they  have  one  doctor,  who  is  modest- 
ly content  with  securing  them  from  bug  bites,  and  five 
hundred  who  prescribe  for  the  bite  of  mad  dogs. 

But  as  nothing  pleases  curiosity  more  than  anecdotes 
of  the  great,  however  minute  or  trifling,  I  must  present 
you,  inadequate  as  my  abilities  are  to  the  subject,  with 
An  account  of  one  or  two  of  those  personages  who  lead 
in  this  honorable  profession. 

The  first  upon  the  list  of  glory  is  Doctor  Richard 
Rock,  F.  U.  JST.  This  great  man  is  short  of  stature,  is 
fat,  and  waddles  as  he  walks.  He  always  wears  a  white 
three-tailed  wig,  nicely  combed,  and  frizzled  upon  each 
cheek.  Sometimes  he  carries  a  cane,  but  a  hat  never ; 
it  is  indeed  very  remarkable  that  this  extraordinary 
personage  should  never  wear  a  hat ;  but  so  it  is,  a  hat 
he  never  wears.  He  is  usually  drawn,  at  the  top  of 
his  own  bills,  sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  holding  a  little 
bottle  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  surrounded 
with  rotten  teeth,  nippers,  pills,  packets,  and  gallipots. 


488  ESSAT6. 

No  man  can  promise  fairer  or  better  than  he ;  for,  as 
he  observes,  "  Be  your  disorder  never  so  far  gone,  be 
under  no  uneasiness,  make  yourself  quite  easy.  I  can 
cure  you." 

The  next  in  fame,  though  by  some  reckoned  of  equal 
pretensions,  is  Dr.  Timothy  Franks,  F.  O.  G.  H.  living 
in  the  Old  Bailey.  As  Rock  is  remarkably  squab,  his 
great  rival  Franks  is  as  remarkably  tall.  He  was  born 
in  the  year  of  the  Christian  era  1692,  and  is,  while  I 
now  write,  exactly  sixty-eight  years  three  months  and 
four  days  old.  Age,  however,  has  no  ways  impaired 
his  usual  health  and  vivacity ;  I  am  told  he  generally 
walks  with  his  breast  open.  This  gentleman,  who  is 
of  a  mixed  reputation,  is  particularly  remarkable  for  a 
becoming  assurance,  which  carries  him  gently  through 
life ;  for,  except  Dr.  Rock,  none  are  more  blessed  with 
the  advantages  of  face  than  Dr.  Franks. 

And  yet  the  great  have  their  foibles  as  well  as  the 
little.  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  mention  it.  Let  the 
foibles  of  the  great  rest  in  peace.  Yet  I  must  impart 
the  whole.  These  two  great  men  are  actually  at  vari- 
ance; like  mere  men,  mere  common  mortals.  Rock 
advises  the  world  to  beware  of  bog-trotting  quacks : 
Franks  retorts  the  wit  and  sarcasm,  by  fixing  on  his  rival 
the  odious  appellation  of  Dumpling  Dick.  He  calls  the 
serious  Doctor  Rock,  Dumpling  Dick !  Head  of  Con- 
fucius, what  profanation !  Dumpling  Dick !  What  a 
pity,  ye  powers,  that  the  learned,  who  were  born  mut- 
ually to  assist  in  enlightening  the  world,  should  thus 
differ  among  themselves,  and  make  even  the  profession 
ridiculous !  Sure  the  world  is  wide  enough,  at  least, 


ESSAYS.  489 

for  two  great  personages  to  figure  in  :  men  of  science 
should  leave  controversy  to  the  little  world  below  them ; 
and  then  we  might  see  Rock  and  Franks  walking 
together  hand  in  hand,  smiling  onward  to  immortality. 

ADVENTURES   OF  A  STROLLING  PLAYER. 

I  AM  fond  of  amusement,  in  whatever  company  it  is 
to  be  found ;  and  wit,  though  dressed  in  rags,  is  ever 
pleasing  to  me.  I  went  some  days  ago  to  take  a  walk 
in  St.  James's  Park,  about  the  hour  in  which  company 
leave  it  to  go  to  dinner.  There  were  but  few  in  the  walks, 
and  those  who  stayed  seemed  by  their  looks  rather  more 
willing  to  forget  that  they  had  an  appetite,  than  gain 
one.  I  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches,  at  the  other 
end  of  which  was  seated  a  man  in  very  shabby  clothes. 

We  continued  to  groan,  to  hem,  and  to  cough,  as 
usual  upon  such  occasions ;  and,  at  last,  ventured  upon 
conversation.  "  I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  cried  I,  "  but  I 
think  I  have  seen  you  before ;  your  face  is  familiar  to 
me."  "Yes,  sir,"  replied  he,  "I  have  a  good  familiar 
face,  as  my  friends  tell  me.  I  am  as  well  known  in  every 
town  in  England  as  the  dromedary,  or  live  crocodile. 
You  must  understand,  sir,  that  I  have  been  these  six- 
teen years  merry-andrew  to  a  puppet-show ;  last  Bartho- 
lomew fair  my  master  and  I  quarrelled,  beat  each  other, 
and  parted ;  he  to  sell  his  puppets  to  the  pincushion-mak- 
ers in  Rosemary-lane,and  I  to  starve  in  St.  James's  Park. 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  a  person  of  your  appearance 
should  labor  under  any  difficulties."  "  O,  sir,"  returned 
he,  "  my  appearance  is  very  much  at  your  service ;  but. 
though  I  cannot  boast  of  eating  much,  yet  there  are  fe« 


490  ESSAYS. 

that  are  merrier ;  if  I  had  twenty  thousand  a  year  I 
should  be  very  merry  ;  and,  thank  the  Fates,  though  not 
worth  a  groat,  I  am  very  merry  still.  If  I  have  three- 
pence in  my  pocket,  I  never  refuse  to  be  my  three  half- 
pence ;  and,  if  I  have  no  money,  I  never  scorn  to  be 
treated  by  any  that  are  kind  enough  to  pay  the  reckon- 
ing. What  think  you,  sir,  of  a  steak  and  a  tankard ! 
You  shall  tr«at  me  now,  and  I  will  treat  you  again 
when  I  find  you  in  the  Park  in  love  with  eating,  and 
without  money  te  pay  for  a  dinner." 

As  I  never  refuse  a  small  expense  for  the  sake  of  a 
merry  companion,  we  instantly  adjourned  to  a  neigh- 
boring ale-house,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  had  a  froth- 
ing tankard,  and  a  smoking  steak,  spread  on  the  table 
before  us.  It  is  impossible  to  express  how  much  the 
sight  of  such  good  cheer  improved  my  companion's 
vivacity.  "I  like  this  dinner,  sir,"  says  he,  "  for  three 
reasons ;  first,  because  I  am  naturally  fond  of  beef ; 
secondly,  because  I  am  hungry  ;  and,  thirdly  and  lastly, 
because  1  get  it  for  nothing ;  no  meat  eats  so  sweet  as 
that  for  which  we  do  not  pay." 

He  therefore  now  fell  to,  and  his  appetite  seemed  to 
correspond  with  his  inclination.  After  dinner  was  over, 
he  observed  that  the  steak  was  tough ;  "and  yet,  sir," 
returns  he,  "  bad  as  it  was,  it  seemed  a  rump-steak  to 
me.  O  the  delights  of  poverty  and  a  good  appetite ! 
We  beggars  are  the  very  fondlings  of  Nature  ;  the  rich 
she  treats  like  an  arrant  step-mother ;  they  are  pleased 
with  nothing ;  cut  a  steak  from  what  part  you  will,  and 
it  is  insupportably  tough ;  dress  it  up  with  pickles,  and 
even  pickles  cannot  procure  them  an  appetite.  But  the 


ESSAYS.  491 

whole  creation  is  filled  with  good  things  for  the  beggar ; 
Calvert's  butt  out-tastes  champagne,  and  Sedgeley's 
home-brewed  excels  tokay.  Joy,  joy,  my  blood ;  though 
our  estates  lie  no  where,  we  have  fortunes  wherever  we 
go.  If  an  inundation  sweeps  away  half  the  grounds  in 
Cornwall,  I  am  content ;  I  have  no  lands  there  ;  if  the 
stocks  sink,  that  gives  me  no  uneasiness  ;  I  am  no  Jew." 
The  fellow's  vivacity,  joined  to  his  poverty,  I  own,  raised 
my  curiosity  to  know  something  of  his  life  and  circum- 
stances ;  and  I  entreated  that  he  would  indulge  my  de- 
sire. "  That  I  will,"  said  he,  "  and  welcome  ;  only  let 
us  drink,  to  prevent  our  sleeping ;  let  us  have  another 
tankard,  while  we  are  awake  ;  let  us  have  another  tank- 
ard ;  for,  ah,  how  charming  a  tankard  looks  when  full ! 
"  You  must  know,  then,  that  I  am  very  well  descend- 
ed ;  my  ancestors  have  made  some  noise  in  the  world, 
for  my  mother  cried  oysters,  and  my  father  beat  a  drum; 
I  am  told  we  have  even  had  some  trumpeters  in  our 
family.  Many  a  nobleman  cannot  show  so  respectful 
a  genealogy  ;  but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  As  I 
was  their  only  child,  my  father  designed  to  breed  me 
up  to  his  own  employment,  which  was  that  of  a  drum- 
mer to  a  puppet-show.  Thus  the  whole  employment  of 
my  younger  years  was  that  of  interpreter  to  Punch  and 
King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory.  But,  though  my  father 
was  very  fond  of  instructing  me  in  beating  all  the 
marches  and  points  of  war,  I  made  no  very  great  pro- 
gress, because  I  naturally  had  no  ear  for  music ;  so  at 
the  age  of  fifteen,  I  went  and  listed  for  a  soldier.  As  I 
had  ever  hated  beating  a  drum,  so  I  soon  found  that  I 
disliked  carrying  a  musket  also ;  neither  the  one  trade 
nor  the  other  was  to  my  taste,  for  I  was  by  nature  fond 


492  ESSAYS. 

of  being  a  gentleman ;  besides,  I  was  obliged  to  obey 
my  captain  ;  he  has  his  will,  I  have  mine,  and  you  have 
yours ;  now  I  very  reasonably  concluded,  that  it  was 
much  more  comfortable  for  a  man  to  obey  his  own  will 
than  another's. 

The  life  of  a  soldier  soon  therefore  gave  me  the 
spleen  ;  I  asked  leave  to  quit  the  service  ;  but,  as  I  was 
tall  and  strong,  my  captain  thanked  me  for  my  kind  in- 
tention, and  said,  because  he  had  a  regard  for  me  we 
should  not  part.  I  wrote  to  my  father  a  very  dismal, 
penitent  letter,  and  desired  that  he  would  raise  money 
to  pay  for  my  discharge  ;  but  the  good  man  was  as  fond 
of  drinking  as  I  was  (sir,  my  service  to  you),  and  those 
who  are  fond  of  drinking  never  pay  for  other  people's 
discharges ;  in  short,  he  never  answered  my  letter. 
What  could  be  done  ?  If  I  have  not  money,  said  I  to 
myself,  to  pay  for  my  discharge,  I  must  find  an  equiva- 
lent some  other  way ;  and  that  must  be  by  running 
away.  I  deserted,  and  that  answered  my  purpose  every 
bit  as  well  as  if  I  had  bought  my  discharge. 

"  Well,  I  was  now  fairly  rid  of  my  military  employ- 
ment, I  sold  my  soldier's  clothes,  bought  worse,  and  in 
order  not  to  be  overtaken,  took  the  most  unfrequented 
roads  possible.  One  evening,  as  I  was  entering  a  vil- 
lage, I  perceived  a  man,  whom  I  afterward  found  to  be 
ihe  curate  of  the  parish,  thrown  from  his  horse  in  a 
miry  road,  and  almost  smothered  in  the  mud.  He  desir- 
ed my  assistance  ;  I  gave  it,  and  drew  him  out  with  some 
difficulty.  He  thanked  me  for  my  trouble  and  was 
going  off ;  but  I  followed  him  home,  for  I  loved  always 
to  have  a  man  thank  me  at  his  own  door.  The  curate 
asked  a  hundred  questions ;  as,  whose  son  I  was ;  from 


ESSAYS.  493 

whence  I  came,  and  whether  I  would  be  faithful.  I 
answered  him  greatly  to  his  satisfaction,  and  gave  my- 
self one  of  the  best  characters  in  the  world  for  sobriety 
(sir,  I  have  the  honor  of  drinking  your  health),  discre- 
tion, and  fidelity.  To  make  a  long  story  short,  he 
wanted  a  servant,  and  hired  me.  With  him  I  lived 
but  two  months ;  we  did  not  much  like  eacn  other ;  I 
was  fond  of  eating,  and  he  gave  me  but  little  to  eat ;  I 
loved  a  pretty  girl,  and  the  old  woman,  my  fellow-ser- 
vant, was  ill-natured  and  ugly.  As  they  endeavored  to 
starve  me  between  them,  I  made  a  pious  resolution  to 
prevent  their  committing  murder ;  I  stole  the  eggs  as 
soon  as  they  were  laid ;  I  emptied  every  unfinished 
bottle  that  I  could  lay  my  hands  on ;  whatever  eatable 
came  in  iny  way  was  sure  to  disappear ;  in  short,  they 
found  I  would  not  do ;  so  I  was  discharged  one  morn- 
ing, and  paid  three  shillings  and  sixpence  for  two  months' 
wages. 

"  While  my  money  was  getting  ready,  I  employed 
myself  in  making  preparations  for  my  departure  ;  two 
hens  were  hatching  in  an  out-house ;  I  went  and  took 
the  eggs  from  habit,  and,  not  to  separate  the  parents 
from  the  children,  I  lodged  hens  and  all  in  my  knap- 
sack. After  this  piece  of  frugality,  I  returned  to  re- 
ceive my  money,  and,  with  my  knapsack  on  my  back 
and  a  staff  in  my  hand,  I  bid  adieu,  with  tears  in  my 
eyes,  to  my  old  benefactor.  I  had  not  gone  far  from 
the  house,  when  I  heard  behind  me  the  cry  of  "  Stop 
thief !  "  but  this  only  increased  my  despatch ;  it  would 
have  been  foolish  for  me  to  stop,  as  I  knew  the  voice 
could  not  be  levelled  at  me.  But  hold,  I  think  I 
42 


494  ESSA.T3. 

those  two  months   at  the  curate's  without  drinking 
come,  the  times  are  dry,  and  may  this  be  my  poison  il 
ever  I  spent  two  more  pious,  stupid  months  in  all  my  life. 

"  Well,  after  travelling  some  days,  whom  should  1 
light  upon  but  a  company  of  strolling  players  ?  The 
moment  I  saw  them  at  a  distance,  my  heart  warmed  to 
them  ;  I  had  a  sort  of  natural  love  for  every  thing  of 
the  vagabond  order ;  they  were  employed  in  settling 
their  baggage  which  had  been  overturned  in  a  narrow 
way ;  I  offered  my  assistance,  which  they  accepted  ;  and 
we  soon  became  so  well  acquainted,  that  they  took  me  as 
a  servant.  This  was  a  paradise  to  me ;  they  sung,  danced, 
drank,  ate,  and  travelled,  all  at  the  same  time.  By  the 
blood  of  the  Mirables,  I  thought  I  had  never  lived  till 
then ;  I  grew  as  merry  as  a  grig,  and  laughed  at  every 
word  that  was  spoken.  They  liked  me  as  much  as  I 
liked  them  ;  I  was  a  very  good  figure,  as  you  see  ;  and, 
though  I  was  poor,  I  was  not  modest. 

"I  love  a  straggling  life  above  all  things  in  the 
world  ;  sometimes  good,  sometimes  bad  ;  to  be  warm  to- 
day and  cold  to-morrow ;  to  eat  when  one  can  get  it, 
and  drink  when  (the  tankard  is  out)  it  stands  before 
me.  We  arrived  that  evening  at  Penterden,  and  took 
a  large  room  at  the  Greyhound,  where  we  resolved  to 
exhibit  Romeo  and  Juliet,  with  the  funeral  procession, 
the  grave,  and  the  garden  scene.  Romeo  was  to  be  per- 
formed by  a  gentleman  from  the  theatre  royal  in  Drury- 
lane  ;  Juliet,  by  a  lady  who  had  never  appeared  on  any 
stage  before ;  and  I  was  to  snuff  the  candles ;  all  ex- 
cellent in  our  way.  We  had  figures  enough,  but  the 
difficulty  was  to  dress  them.  The  same  coat  that  serv- 


ESSAYS.  495 

ed  Romeo,  turned  with  the  blue  lining  outwards,  served 
for  his  friend  Mercutio  ;  a  large  piece  of  crape  sufficed 
at  once  for  Juliet's  petticoat  and  pall ;  a  pestle  and 
mortar,  from  a  neighboring  apothecary's,  answered  all 
the  purposes  of  a  bell ;  and  our  landlord's  own  family, 
wrapped  in  white  sheets,  served  to  fill  up  the  proces- 
sion.  In  short,  there  were  but  three  figures  among  u£ 
that  might  be  said  to  be  dressed  with  any  propriety ;  I 
mean  the  nurse,  the  starved  apothecary,  and  myself. 
Our  performance  gave  universal  satisfaction  ;  the  whole 
audience  were  enchanted  with  our  powers. 

"  There  is  one  rule  by  which  a  strolling  player  may 
be  ever  secure  of  success  ;  that  is,  in  our  theatrical  way 
of  expressing  it,  to  make  a  great  deal  of  the  character. 
To  speak  and  act  as  in  common  life,  is  not  playing,  nor 
is  it  what  people  come  to  see ;  natural  speaking,  like 
sweet  wine,  runs  glibly  over  the  palate,  and  scarce 
leaves  any  taste  behind  it ;  but  being  high  in  a  part  re- 
sembles vinegar,  which  grates  upon  the  taste,  and  one 
feels  it  while  he  is  drinking.  To  please  in  town  o" 
country,  the  way  is,  cry,  wring,  cringe  in  attitudes/ 
mark  the  emphasis,  slap  the  pockets,  and  labor  like  one 
in  the  falling  sickness  ;  that  is  the  way  to  work  for  ap- 
plause ;  that  is  the  way  to  gain  it. 

"  As  we  received  much  reputation  for  our  skill  on 
this  first  exhibition,  it  was  but  natural  for  me  to  ascribe 
part  of  the  success  to  myself ;  I  snuffed  the  candles ; 
and,  let  me  tell  you  that,  without  a  candle-snuffer,  the 
piece  would  lose  half  its  embellishments.  In  this  manner 
we  continued  a  fortnight,  and  drew  tolerable  houses ; 
but  the  evening  before  our  intended  departure,  we  gave 


496  ESSAYS. 

out  our  very  best  piece,  in  which  all  our  strength  was  to 
be  exerted.  We  had  great  expectations  from  this,  and 
even  doubled  our  prices,  when,  behold  !  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal actors  fell  ill  of  a  violent  fever.  This  was  a  stroke 
like  thunder  to  our  little  company ;  they  resolved  to  go, 
in  a  body,  to  scold  the  man  for  falling  sick  at  so  incon- 
venient a  time,  and  that  too  of  a  disorder  that  threat- 
ened to  be  expensive.  I  seized  the  moment,  and  offered 
to  act  the  part  myself  in  his  stead.  The  case  was  des- 
perate ;  they  accepted  my  offer ;  and  I  accordingly  sat 
down  with  the  part  in  my  hand,  ami  a  tankard  before 
me  (sir,  your  health),  and  studied  the  character,  which 
was  to  be  rehearsed  the  next  day,  and  played  soon  after. 
"  I  found  my  memory  excessively  helped  by  drink- 
ing ;  I  learned  my  part  with  astonishing  rapidity,  and 
bid  adieu  to  snuffing  candles  ever  after.  I  found  that 
Nature  had  designed  me  for  more  noble  employments, 
and  I  was  resolved  to  take  her  when  in  humor.  We 
got  together  in  order  to  rehearse,  and  I  informed  my 
companions,  masters  now  no  longer,  of  the  surprising 
change  I  felt  within  me.  Let  the  sick  man,  said  I,  be 
under  no  uneasiness  to  get  well  again  ;  I  '11  fill  his  place- 
to  universal  satisfaction ;  he  may  even  die,  if  he  thinks 
proper ;  I  '11  engage  that  he  shall  never  be  missed.  I 
rehearsed  before  them,  strutted,  ranted,  and  received  ap- 
plause. They  soon  gave  out  that  a  new  actor  of  emin- 
ence was  to  appear,  and  immediately  all  the  genteel 
places  were  bespoke.  Before  I  ascended  the  stage, 
however,  I  concluded  within  myself,  that,  as  I  brought 
money  to  the  house,  I  ought  to  have  my  share  in  the 
profits.  Gentlemen  (said  I,  addressing  our  company), 


ESSAYS.  497 

1  do  n't  pretend  to  direct  you ;  far  be  it-  from  me  to 
treat  you  with  so  much  ingratitude ;  you  have  published 
my  name  in  the  bills  with  the  utmost  good-nature ;  and, 
as  affairs  stand,  cannot  act  without  me ;  so,  gentlemen, 
to  show  you  my  gratitude,  I  expect  to  be  paid  for  my 
acting  as  much  as  any  of  you,  otherwise  I  declare  off ; 
I  '11  brandish  my  snuffers  and  clip  candles  as  usual. 
This  was  a  very  disagreeable  proposal,  but  they  found 
that  it  was  impossible  to  refuse  it;  it  was  irresistible,  it 
was  adamant ;  they  consented,  and  I  went  on  in  king 
Bajazet ;  my  frowning  brows  bound  with  a  stocking 
stuffed  into  a  turban,  while  on  my  captived  arms  I 
brandished  a  jack-chain.  Nature  seemed  to  have  fitted 
me  for  the  part ;  I  was  tall,  and  had  a  loud  voice ;  my 
very  entrance  excited  universal  applause ;  I  looked 
round  on  the  audience  with  a  smile,  and  made  a  most 
low  and  graceful  bow,  for  that  is  the  rule  among  us. 
As  it  was  a  very  passionate  part,  I  invigorated  my 
spirits  with  three  full  glasses  (the  tankard  is  almost 
out)  of  brandy.  By  Alia !  it  is  almost  inconceivable 
how  I  went  through  it.  Tamerlane  was  but  a  fool  to  me ; 
though  he  was  sometimes  loud  enough  too,  yet  I  was 
still  louder  than  he ;  but  then,  besides,  I  had  attitudes 
in  abundance  ;  in  general,  I  kept  my  arms  folded  up 
thus  upon  the  pit  of  my  stomach ;  it  is  the  way  at 
Drury-lane,  and  has  always  a  fine  effect.  The  tankard 
would  sink  to  the  bottom  before  I  could  get  through 
the  whole  of  my  merits ;  in  short,  I  came  off  like  a 
prodigy ;  and,  such  was  my  success,  that  I  could  ravish 
the  laurels  even  from  a  surloin  of  beef.  The  principal 
gentlemen  and  ladies  of  the  town  came  to  me,  after  the 
42* 


498  ESSAYS. 

play  was  over,  to  compliment  me  on  my  success  ;  one 
praised  my  voice,  another  my  person  ;  *  Upon  my  word,' 
says  the  squire's  lady,  t  he  will  make  one  of  the  finest 
actors  in  Europe  ;  I  say  it,  and  I  think  I  am  something 
of  a  judge.'  Praise  in  the  beginning  is  agreeable 
enough,  and  we  receive  it  as  a  favor ;  but  when  it  comes 
in  great  quantities  we  regard  it  only  as  a  debt,  which 
nothing  but  our  merit  could  extort ;  instead  of  thank- 
ing them,  I  internally  applauded  myself.  We  were 
desired  to  give  our  piece  a  second  time ;  we  obeyed,  and 
I  was  applauded  even  more  than  before. 

"  At  last  we  left  the  town,  in  order  to  be  at  a  horse- 
race some  distance  from  thence.  I  shall  never  think  of 
Tenterden  without  tears  of  gratitude  and  respect.  The 
ladies  and  gentlemen  there,  take  my  word  for  it,  are 
very  good  judges  of  plays  and  actors.  Come,  let  us 
drink  their  healths,  if  you  please,  sir.  We  quitted  the 
town,  I  say,  and  there  was  a  wide  difference  between 
my  coming  in  and  going  out ;  I  entered  the  town  a  can- 
dle-snuffer, and  I  quitted  it  a  hero !  Such  is  the  world 
—  little  to-day,  and  great  to-morrow.  I  could  say  a 
great  deal  more  upon  that  subject,  something  truly  sub- 
lime, upon  the  ups  and  downs  of  fortune ;  but  it  would 
give  us  both  the  spleen,  and  so  I  shall  pass  it  over. 

"  The  races  were  ended  before  we  arrived  at  the  next 
town,  which  was  no  small  disappointment  to  our  com- 
pany ;  however,  we  were  resolved  to  take  all  we  could 
get ;  I  played  capital  characters  there  too,  and  came  off 
with  my  usual  brilliancy.  I  sincerely  believe  I  should 
have  been  the  first  actor  in  Europe,  had  my  growing 
merit  been  properly  cultivated ;  but  there  came  an  un- 


ESSAYS.  499 

kindly  frost  which  nipped  me  in  the  bud,  and  levelled 
me  once  more  down  to  the  common  standard  of  human- 
ity. I  played  Sir  Harry  Wildair  ;  all  the  country  ladies 
were  charmed ;  if  I  but  drew  out  my  snuff-box,  the 
whole  house  was  in  a  roar  of  rapture ;  when  I  exercised 
my  cudgel,  I  thought  they  would  have  fallen  into  con- 
vulsions. 

"  There  was  here  a  lady,  who  had  received  an  educa- 
tion of  nine  months  in  London,  and  this  gave  her  pre- 
tensions to  taste,  which  rendered  her  the  indisputable 
mistress  of  the  ceremonies  wherever  she  came.  She 
was  informed  of  my  merits ;  everybody  praised  me  ; 
yet  she  refused  at  first  going  to  see  me  perform ;  she 
could  not  conceive,  she  said,  anything  but  stuff  from  a 
stroller ;  talked  something  in  praise  of  Garrick,  and 
amazed  the  ladies  with  her  skill  in  enunciations,  tones, 
and  cadences.  She  was  at  last,  however,  prevailed  upon 
to  go  ;  and  it  was  privately  intimated  to  me  what  a  judge 
was  to  be  present  at  my  next  exhibition ;  however,  no 
way  intimidated,  I  came  on  in  Sir  Harry,  one  hand 
stuck  in  my  breeches,  and  the  other  in  my  bosom,  as 
usual  at  Drury-lane ;  but,  instead  of  looking  at  me,  I 
perceived  the  whole  audience  had  their  eyes  turned  upon 
the  lady  who  had  been  nine  months  in  London ;  from 
her  they  expected  the  dicision  which  was  to  secure  th* 
general's  truncheon  in  my  hands,  or  sink  me  down  inte 
a  theatrical  letter-carrier.  I  opened  my  snuff-box,  took 
snuff ;  the  lady  was  solemn,  and  so  were  the  rest.  I 
broke  my  cudgel  on  Alderman  Smuggler's  back ;  still 
gloomy,  melancholy  all ;  the  lady  groaned  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders.  I  attempted,  by  laughing  myself,  to 
excite  at  least  a  smile ;  but  the  devil  a  cheek  could  I 


500  ESSAYS. 

perceive  wrinkle  into  sympathy.  1  found  it  would 
not  do ;  all  ray  good-humor  now  became  forced ;  my 
laughter  was  converted  into  hysteric  grinning ;  and 
while  I  pretended  spirits,  my  eyes  showed  the  agony 
of  my  heart !  In  short,  the  lady  came  with  an  inten- 
tion to  be  displeased,  and  displeased  she  was  ;  my  fame 

expired:  —  I  am   here,  and the    tankard   is   no 

more !  " 

RULES  ENJOINED   TO   BE  OBSERVED  AT  A  RUS- 
SIAN ASSEMBLY. 

WHEN  Catharina  Alexowna  was  made  Empress  of 
Russia  the  women  were  in  an  actual  state  of  bondage  ; 
but  she  undertook  to  introduce  mixed  assemblies,  as  in 
other  parts  of  Europe ;  she  altered  the  women's  dress 
by  substituting  the  fashions  of  England  ;  instead  of  furs 
she  brought  in  the  use  of  taffeta  and  damask  ;  and  cor- 
nets and  commodes  instead  of  caps  of  sable.  The 
women  now  found  themselves  no  longer  shut  up  in 
separate  apartments,  but  saw  company,  visited  each 
other,  and  were  present  at  every  entertainment. 

But  as  the  laws  to  this  effect  were  directed  to  a 
savage  people,  it  is  amusing  enough  to  see  the  manner 
in  which  the  ordinances  ran.  Assemblies  were  quite 
unknown  among  them ;  the  czarina  was  satisfied  with 
introducing  them,  for  she  found  it  impossible  to  render 
them  polite.  An  ordinance  was  therefore  published 
according  to  their  notions  of  breeding,  which,  as  it  is  a 
curiosity,  and  has  never  been  before  printed  that  we 
know  of,  we  shall  give  our  readers. 

I.  The  person  at  whose  house  the  assembly  is  to  be 
kept  shall  signify  the  same  by  hanging  out  a  bill,  or  by 


ESSAYS.  501 

giving  some  other  public  notice,  by  way  of  advertise- 
ment, to  persons  of  both  sexes. 

II.  The  assembly  shall  not  be  open  sooner  than  four 
or  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  nor  continue  longer 
than  ten  at  night. 

III.  The  master  of  the  house  shall  not  be  obliged  to 
meet  his  guests,  or  conduct  them  out,  or  keep  them 
company ;  but  though  he  is  exempt  from  ^all  this,  he  is 
to  find  them  chairs,  candles,  liquors,   and  all   other 
necessaries  that  company  may  ask  for ;  he  is  likewise 
to  provide  them  with  cards,  dice,  and  every  necessary 
for  gaming. 

IV.  There  shall  be  no  fixed  hour  for  coming  or 
going  away  ;  it  is  enough  for  a  person  to  appear  in  the 
assembly. 

V.  Every  one  shall  be  free  to  sit,  walk,  or  game,  as 
he  pleases  ;  nor  shall  any  one  go  about  to  hinder  him, 
or  take  exception  at  what  he  does,  upon  pain  of  empty- 
ing the  great  eagle  (a  pint  bowl  full  of  brandy)  ;  it  shall 
likewise  be  sufficient,  at  entering  or  retiring,  to  salute 
the  company. 

VI.  Persons  of  distinction,  noblemen,  superior  offi- 
cers, merchants,  and  tradesmen  of  note,  head-workmen, 
especially  carpenters,  and  persons  employed  in  chan- 
cery, are  to  have  liberty  to  enter  the  assemblies ;  as 
likewise  their  wives  and  children. 

VII.  A  particular  place  shall  be  assigned  the  foot- 
men, except  those  of  the  house,  that  there  may  be  room 
enough  in  the  apartments  designed  for  the  assembly. 

VIII.  No  ladies  are  to  get  drunk  upon  any  pretence 
whatsoever,  nor  shall  gentlemen  be  drunk  before  nine. 

IX.  Ladies  who  play  at  forfeitures,  questions,  and 
commands,  etc.,  shall  not  be  riotous  ;  no  gentleman  shall 
attempt  to  force  a  kiss,  and  no  person  shall  offer  to 
strike  a  woman  in  the  assembly,  under  pain  of  future 
exclusion. 

Such  are  the  statutes  upon  this  occasion,  which,  in 


502  ESSAYS. 

their  very  appearance  carry  an  air  of  ridicule  and  sa« 
tire.  But  politeness  must  enter  every  country  by  de- 
grees ;  and  these  rules  resemble  the  breeding  of  a 
clown,  awkward  but  sincere. 


THE  GENIUS  OF  LOVE. 

AN  EASTERN  APOLOGUE. 

THE  formalities,  delays,  and  disappointments,  that 
precede  a  treaty  of  marriage  here,  are  usually  as  numer- 
ous as  those  previous  to  a  treaty  of  peace.  The  law,<? 
of  this  country  are  finely  calculated  to  promote  all 
commerce,  but  the  commerce  between  the  sexes.  Their 
encouragements  for  propagating  hemp,  madder,  and 
tobacco,  are  indeed  admirable  !  Marriages  are  the  only 
commodity  that  meets  with  none. 

Yet,  from  the  vernal  softness  of  the  air,  the  verdure 
of  the  fields,  the  transparency  of  the  streams,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  women,  I  know  few  countries  more  pro- 
per to  invite  to  courtship.  Here  Love  might  sport 
among  painted  lawns  and  warbling  groves,  and  revel 
amidst  gales,  wafting  at  once  both  fragrance  and  har- 
mony. Yet  it  seems  he  has  forsaken  the  island ;  and 
when  a  couple  are  now  to  be  married,  mutual  love,  or 
a  union  of  minds,  is  the  last  and  most  trifling  consider- 
ation. If  their  goods  and  chattels  can  be  brought  to 
unite,  their  sympathetic  souls  are  ever  ready  to  guar- 
antee the  treaty.  The  gentleman's  mortgaged  lawn 
becomes  enamored  of  the  lady's  marriageable  grove ; 
the  match  is  struck  up,  and  both  parties  are  piously  in 
love  —  according  to  act  of  parliament. 

Thus  they  who  have  a  fortune,  are  possessed  at  least 


ESSAYS.  503 

of  something  that  is  lovely ;  but  I  actually  pity  those 
that  have  none.  I  am  told  there  was  a  time  when 
ladies,  with  no  other  merit  but  youth,  virtue,  and 
beauty,  had  a  chance  for  husbands,  at  least  among  the 
ministers  of  the  church,  or  the  officers  of  the  army. 
The  blush  and  innocence  of -sixteen  was  said  to  have  a 
powerful  influence  over  these  two  professions ;  but  of 
late,  all  the  little  traffic  of  blushing,  ogling,  dimpling, 
and  smiling,  has  been  forbidden  by  an  act  in  that  case 
wisely  made  and  provided.  A  lady's  whole  cargo  of 
smiles,  sighs,  and  whispers,  is  declared  utterly  contra- 
band, till  she  arrives  in  the  warm  latitude  of  twenty- 
two,  where  commodities  of  this  nature  are  found  too 
often  to  decay.  She  is  then  permitted  to  dimple  and 
smile,  when  the  dimples  and  smiles  begin  to  forsake 
her ;  and  when  perhaps,  grown  ugly,  is  charitably  in- 
trusted with  an  unlimited  use  of  her  charms.  Her 
lovers,  however,  by  this  time,  have  forsaken  her ;  the 
captain  has  changed  for  another  mistress  ;  the  priest 
himself  leaves  her  in  solitude  to  bewail  her  virginity, 
and  she  dies  even  without  benefit  of  clergy. 

Thus  you  find  the  Europeans  discouraging  love  with 
as  much  earnestness  as  the  rudest  savage  of  Sofala. 
The  Genius  is  surely  now  no  more.  In  every  region 
I  find  enemies  in  arms  to  oppress  him.  Avarice  in 
Europe,  jealousy  in  Persia,  ceremony  in  China,  poverty 
among  the  Tartars,  and  lust  in  Circassia,  are  all  pre- 
pared to  oppose  his  power.  The  Genius  is  certainly 
banished  from  earth,  though  once  adored  under  such 
a  variety  of  forms.  He  is  no  where  to  be  found ;  and 
all  that  the  ladies  of  each  country  can  produce,  are  but 


504  E8SAT8. 

a  few  trifling  relics,  as  instances  of  his  former  resicfc. 
ence  and  favor. 

"  The  Genius  of  Love,"  says  the  Eastern  apologue, 
"  had  long  resided  in  the  happy  plains  of  Abra,  where 
every  breeze  was  health,  and  every  sound  produced 
tranquility.  His  temple  at  first  was  crowded,  but  everj 
age  lessened  the  number  of  his  votaries,  or  cooled  their 
devotion.  Perceiving,  therefore,  his  altars  at  length 
quite  deserted,  he  was  resolved  to  remove  to  some  more 
propitious  region  ;  and  he  apprized  the  fair  sex  of  every 
country,  where  he  could  hope  for  a  proper  reception, 
to  assert  their  right  to  his  presence  among  them.  In 
return  to  this  proclamation,  embassies  were  sent  from 
the  ladies  of  every  part  of  the  world  to  invite  him,  and 
to  display  the  superiority  of  their  claims. 

"  And,  first,  the  beauties  of  China  appeared.  No 
country  could  compare  with  them  for  modesty,  either 
of  look,  dress  or  behavior  ;  their  eyes  were  never  lifted 
from  the  ground  ;  their  robes,  of  the  most  beautiful 
silk,  hid  their  hands,  bosom,  and  neck,  while  their  faces 
only  were  left  uncovered.  They  indulged  no  airs  that 
might  express  loose  desire,  and  they  seemed  to  study 
only  the  graces  of  inanimate  beauty.  Their  black  teetli 
and  plucked  eye-brows  were,  however,  alleged  by  the 
genius  against  them,  but  he  set  them  entirely  aside 
when  he  came  to  examine  their  little  feet. 

"  The  beauties  of  Circassia  next  made  their  appear- 
ance. They  advanced,  hand  in  hand,  singing  the  most 
immodest  airs,  and  leading  up  a  dance  in  the  most  luxu- 
rious attitudes.  Their  dress  was  but  half  a  covering ; 
the  neck,  the  left  breast,  and  all  the  limbs,  were  ex- 


ESSAYS.  505 

posed  to  view,  which,  after  some  time,  seemed  rather 
to  satiate,  than  inflame  desire.  The  lily  and  the  rose 
contended  in  forming  their  complexions ;  and  a  soft 
sleepiness  of  eye  added  irresistible  poignance  to  their 
charms  ;  but  their  beauties  were  obtruded,  not  offered 
to  their  admirers;  they  seemed  to  give,. rather  than 
receive  courtship ;  and  the  genius  of  love  dismissed 
them,  as  unworthy  his  regard,  since  they  exchanged 
the  duties  of  love,  and  made  themselves  not  the  pur- 
eued,  but  the  pursuing  sex. 

"  The  kingdom  of  Kashmire  next  produced  its  charm- 
ing deputies.  This  happy  region  seemed  peculiarly 
sequestered  by  nature  for  his  abode.  Shady  mountains 
fenced  it  on  one  side  from  the  scorching  sun ;  and  sea- 
borne breezes,  on  the  other,  gave  peculiar  luxuriance 
to  the  air.  Their  complexions  were  of  a  bright  yellow, 
that  appeared  almost  transparent,  while  the  crimson 
tulip  seemed  to  blossom  on  their  cheeks.  Their  fea- 
tures and  limbs  were  delicate,  beyond  the  statuary's 
power  to  express ;  and  their  teeth  whiter  than  their 
own  ivory.  He  was  almost  persuaded  to  reside  among 
them,  when  unfortunately  one  of  the  ladies  talked  of 
appointing  his  seraglio. 

"  In  this  procession  the  naked  inhabitants  of  Southern 
America  would  not  be  left  behind  ;  their  charms  were 
found  to  surpass  whatever  the  warmest  imagination 
could  conceive ;  and  served  to  show,  that  beauty  could 
be  perfect,  even  with  the  seeming  disadvantage  of  a 
brown  complexion.  But  their  savage  education  rend- 
ered them  utterly  unqualified  to  make  the  proper  use 
of  their  power,  and  they  were  rejected  as  being  iucaps*- 


506  ESSAYS. 

ble  of  uniting  mental  with  sensual  satisfaction.  In  this 
manner  the  deputies  of  other  kingdoms  had  their  suits 
rejected ;  the  black  beauties  of  Benin,  and  the  tawny 
daughters  of  Borneo  ;  the  women  of  Wida  with  scarred 
faces,  and  the  hideous  virgins  of  Caffraria ;  the  squab 
ladies  of  Lapland,  three  feet  high,  and  the  giant  fair 
ones  of  Patagonia. 

"  The  beauties  of  Europe  at  last  appeared ;  grace 
was  in  their  steps,  and  sensibility  sat  smiling  in  every 
eye.  It  was  the  universal  opinion,  while  they  were  ap- 
proaching, that  they  would  prevail ;  and  the  genius 
seemed  to  lend  them  his  most  favorable  attention. 
They  opened  their  pretensions  with  the  utmost  modesty  ; 
but  unfortunately,  as  their  orator  proceeded,  she  hap- 
pened to  let  fall  the  words,  house  in  town,  settlement, 
and  pin-money.  These  seemingly  harmless  terms  had 
instantly  a  surprising  effect ;  the  genius,  with  ungovern- 
able rage,  burst  from  amidst  the  circle  ;  and,  waving  his 
youthful  pinions,  left  this  earth,  and  flew  back  to  those 
ethereal  mansions  from  whence  he  descended. 

"  The  whole  assembly  was  struck  with  amazement, 
they  now  justly  apprehended  that  female  power  would 
be  no  more,  since  Love  had  now  forsaken  them. 
They  continued  some  time  thus  in  a  state  of  torpid 
despair,  when  it  was  proposed  by  one  of  the  num- 
Der,  that,  since  the  real  Genius  of  Love  had  left 
them,  in  order  to  continue  their  power,  they  should 
set  up  an  idol  in  his  stead;  and  that  the  ladies  of 
every  country  should  furnish  him  with  what  each 
liked  best.  This  proposal  was  instantly  relished 
and  agreed  to.  An  idol  of  gold  was  formed  by 


ESSAYS.  507 

uniting  the  capricious  gifts  of  all  the  assembly,  though  no 
way  resembling  the  departed  genius.  The  ladies  of 
China  furnished  the  monster  with  wings ;  those  of  Kash- 
mire  supplied  him  with  horns;  the  dames  of  Europe 
clapped  a  purse  in  his  hand ;  and  the  virgins  of  Congo 
furnished  him  with  a  tail.  Since  that  time  all  the  vows 
addressed  to  Love  are  in  reality  paid  to  the  idol;  and,  as 
in  other  false  religions,  the  adoration  seems  more  fervent 
where  the  heart  is  least  sincere." 


HISTORY  OF  THE  DISTRESSES  OF  AN  ENGLISH 
DISABLED  SOLDIER. 

No  observation  is  more  common,  and  at  the  same  time 
more  true,  than  that  "  one  half  of  the  world  is  ignorant 
how  the  other  half  lives."  The  misfortunes  of  the  great 
are  held  up  to  engage  our  attention ;  are  enlarged  upon 
in  tones  of  declamation ;  and  the  world  is  called  upon  to 
gaze  at  the  noble  sufferers ;  the  great,  under  the  pressure 
of  calamity,  are  conscious  of  several  others  sympathizing 
with  their  distress;  and  have,  at  once,  the  comfort  of 
admiration  and  pity. 

There  is  nothing  magnanimous  in  bearing  misfortunes 
with  fortitude  when  the  whole  world  is  looking  on :  men' 
in  such  circumstances  will  act  bravely  even  from  motives 
of  vanity ;  but  he  who,  in  the  vale  of  obscurity,  can  brave 
adversity,  who,  without  friends  to  encourage,  acquaintan- 
ces to  pity,  or  even  without  hope  to  alleviate  his  misfor- 
tunes, can  behave  with  tranquility  and  indifference,  is 
truly  great ;  whether  peasant  or  courtier,  he  deserves  ad- 


508  ESSAYS. 

miration,  and  should  be  held  up  for  our  imitation  and 
respect. 

While  the  slightest  inconveniences  of  the  great  are 
magnified  into  calamities;  while  tragedy  mouths  out  their 
sufferings  in  all  the  strains  of  eloquence  —  the  miseries 
of  the  poor  are  entirely  disregarded ;  and  yet  some  of  the 
lower  ranks  of  people  undergo  more  real  hardships  in  one 
day,  than  those  of  a  more  exalted  station  suffer  in  their 
whole  lives.  It  is  inconceivable  what  difficulties  the 
meanest  of  our  common  sailors  and  soldiers  endure  with- 
out murmuring  or  regret;  without  passionately  declaim- 
ing against  Providence,  or  calling  on  their  fellows  to  be 
gazers  on  their  intrepidity.  Every  day  is  to  them  a  day 
of  misery,  and  yet  they  entertain  their  hard  fate  without 
repining. 

With  what  indignation  do  I  hear  an  Ovid,  a  Cicero, 
or  a  Rabutin,  complain  of  their  misfortunes  and  hardships 
whose  greatest  calamity  was  that  of  being  unable  to  visit 
a  certain  spot  of  earth,  to  which  they  had  foolishly 
attached  an  idea  of  happiness !  Their  distresses  were 
pleasures  compared  to  what  many  of  the  adventuring 
poor  every  day  endure  without  murmuring.  They  ate, 
drank,  and  slept:  they  had  slaves  to  attend  them,  and 
were  sure  of  subsistence  for  life ;  while  many  of  their 
fellow-creatures  are  obliged  to  wander  without  a  friend 
to  comfort  or  assist  them,  and  even  without  a  shelter 
from  the  severity  of  the  season. 

I  have  been  led  into  these  reflections  from  accidentally 
meeting,  some  days  ago,  a  poor  fellow,  whom  I  knew 
when  a  boy,  dressed  in  a  sailor's  jacket,  and  begging  at 
one  of  the  outlets  of  the  town,  with  a  wooden  leg.  I 


ESSAYS.  509 

knew  him  to  be  honest  and  industrious  when  in  the 
country,  and  was  curious  to  learn  what  had  reduced  him 
to  his  present  situation.  Wherefore,  after  giving  him 
what  I  thought  proper,  I  desired  to  know  the  history  of 
his  life  and  misfortunes,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  was 
reduced  to  his  present  distress.  The  disabled  soldier,  for 
such  he  was,  though  dressed  in  a  sailor's  habit,  scratch- 
ing his  head,  and  leaning  on  his  crutch,  put  himself  into 
an  attitude  to  comply  with  my  request,  and  gave  me  his 
history  as  follows:  — 

"As  for  my  misfortunes,  master,  I  can't  pretend  to 
have  gone  through  any  more  than  other  folks :  for  except 
the  loss  of  my  limb,  and  my  being  obliged  to  beg,  I 
do  n't  know  any  reason,  thank  Heaven,  that  I  have  to 
complain :  there  is  Bill  Tibbs,  of  our  regiment,  he  has 
lost  both  his  legs,  and  an  eye  to  boot ;  but,  thank  Heaven, 
it  is  not  so  bad  with  me  yet. 

"I  was  born  in  Shropshire;  my  father  was  a  laborer, 
and  died  when  I  was  five  years  old,  so  I  was  put  upon 
the  parish.  As  he  had  been  a  wandering  sort  of  a  man, 
the  parishioners  were  not  able  to  tell  to  what  parish  I  be- 
longed, or  where  I  was  born,  so  they  sent  me  to  another 
parish,  and  that  parish  sent  me  to  a  third.  I  thought  in 
my  heart  they  kept  sending  me  about  so  long  that  they 
would  not  let  me  be  born  in  any  parish  at  all ;  but  at  last, 
however,  they  fixed  me.  I  had  some  disposition  to  be  a 
scholar,  and  was  resolved  at  least  to  know  my  letters ; 
but  the  master  of  the  workhouse  put  me  to  business  as 
soon  as  I  was  able  to  handle  a  mallet ;  and  here  I  lived 
an  easy  kind  of  a  life  for  five  years;  I  only  wrought  ten 
hours  in  the  day,  and  had  my  meat  and  drink  provided 
43* 


510 


ESSAYS. 


for  my  labor.  It  is  true,  I  was  not  suffered  to  stir  out  of 
the  house,  for  fear,  as  they  said,  I  should  run  away,  but 
what  of  that  ?  I  had  the  liberty  of  the  whole  house,  and 
the  yard  before  the  door,  and  that  was  enough  for  me. 
I  was  then  bound  out  to  a  farmer,  where  I  was  up  both 
early  and  late ;  but  I  ate  and  drank  well,  and  liked  my 
business  well  enough  till  he  died,  when  I  was  obliged 
to  provide  for  myself;  so  I  was  resolved  to  go  and  seek 
my  fortune 

"In  this  manner  I  went  from  town  to  town,  worked 
when  I  could  get  employment,  and  starved  when  I  could 
get  none ;  when  happening  one  day  to  go  through  a  field 
belonging  to  a  justice  of  the  peace,  I  spied  a  hare  cross- 
ing the  path  just  before  me ;  and  I  believe  the  devil  put 
it  into  my  head  to  fling  my  stick  at  it :  —  well,  what  will 
you  have  on  't?  I  killed  the  hare,  and  was  bringing  it 
away  in  triumph,  when  the  justice  himself  met  me :  'he 
called  me  a  poacher  and  a  villain  ;  and,  collaring  me,  de- 
sired I  would  give  an  account  of  myself.  I  fell  upon 
my  knees,  begged  his  worship's  pardon,  and  began  to 
give  a  full  account  of  all  that  I  knew  of  my  breed,  seed, 
and  generation ;  but  though  I  gave  a  very  good  account, 
the  justice  would  not  believe  a  syllable  I  had  to  say ;  so 
I  was  indicted  at  sessions,  found  guilty  of  being  poor, 
and  sent  up  to  Ljalon  to  Newgate,  in  order  to  be  trans- 
ported as  a  vagabond. 

"  People  may  say  this  and  that  of  being  in  jail ;  but, 
for  my  part,  I  found  Newgate  as  agreeable  a  place  as 
ever  I  was  in  in  all  my  life.  I  had  my  bellyfull  to  eat 
and  drink,  and  did  no  work  at  all.  This  kind  of  life  was 
too  good  to  last  forever ;  so  I  was  taken  out  of  prison.. 


ESSAYS,  511 

after  five  months,  put  on  board  a  ship,  and  sent  off  with 
two  hundred  more,  to  the  plantations.  We  had  but  an 
indifferent  passage ;  for,  being  all  confined  in  the  hold, 
more  than  a  hundred  of  our  people  died  for  want  of 
sweet  air ;  and  those  that  remained  were  sickly  enough, 
God  knows.  When  we  came  ashore  we  were  sold  to 
the  planters,  and  T  was  bound  for  seven  years  more.  As 
I  was  no  scholar,  for  I  did  not  know  my  letters,  I  was 
obliged  to  work  among  the  negroes ;  and  I  served  out 
my  time,  as  in  duty  bound  to  do. 

"  When  my  time  was  expired,  I  worked  my  passage 
home,  and  glad  I  was  to  see  old  England  again,  because 
I  loved  my  country.  I  was  afraid,  however,  that  I  should 
be  indicted  for  a  vagabond  once  more,  so  did  not  much 
care  to  go  down  into  the  country,  but  kept  about  the 
town,  and  did  little  jobs  when  I  could  get  them. 

"I  was  very  happy  in  this  manner  for  some  time,  till 
one  evening,  coming  home  from  work,  two  men  knocked 
me  down,  and  then  desired  me  to  stand.  They  belonged 
to  a  press-gang;  I  was  carried  before  the  justice,  and  as, 
1  could  give  no  account  of  myself,  I  had  my  choice  left, 
whether  to  go  on  board  a  man  of  war,  or  list  for  a- soldier. 
I  chose  the  latter ;  and,  in  this  post  of  a  gentleman,  I 
served  two  campaigns  in  Flanders,  was  at  the  battles  of 
Val  and  Fontenoy,  and  received  but  one  wound  through 
the  breast  here;  but  the  doctor  of  our  regiment  soon 
made  me  well  again. 

"  When  the  peace  came  on  1  was  discharged,  and  as  I 
could  not  work,  because  my  wound  was  sometimes  trouble' 
some,  T  listed  for  a  landman  in  the  East-India  company's 


512  ESSAYS. 

service.  I  here  fought  the  French  in  six  pitched  battles, 
and  I  verily  believe  that,  if  I  could  read  or  write,  our 
captain  would  have  made  me  a  corporal.  But  it  was  not 
my  good  fortune  to  have  any  promotion,  for  I  soon  fell 
sick,  and  so  got  leave  to  return  home  again,  with  forty 
pounds  in  my  pocket.  This  was  at  the  beginning  of  the 
present  war,  and  I  hoped  to  be  set  on  shore,  and  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  spending  my  money ;  but  the  government 
wanted  men,  and  so  I  was  pressed  for  a  sailor  before 
ever  I  could  set  foot  on  shore. 

"The  boatswain  found  me,  as  he  said,  an  oosiinate  fel- 
low :  he  swore  he  knew  that  I  understood  my  business 
well,  but  that  I  shammed  Abraham,  merely  to  be  idle ; 
but  God  knows  I  knew  nothing  of  sea-business,  and  he 
beat  me  without  considering  what  he  was  about.  I  had 
still,  however,  my  forty  pounds,  and  that  was  some  com- 
fort to  me  under  every  beating ;  and  the  money  I  might 
have  had  to  this  day,  but  that  our  ship  was  taken  by  the 
French,  and  so  I  lost  all. 

"  Our  crew  was  carried  into  Brest,  and  many  of  them 
died  because  they  were  not  used  to  live  in  a  jail ;  but 
for  my  part,  it  was  nothing  to  me,  for  I  was  seasoned. 
One  night  as  I  was  sleeping  on  the  bed  of  boards,  with  a 
warm  blanket  about  me,  for  I  always  loved  to  lie  well,  I 
was  awakened  by  the  boatswain,  who  had  a  dark  lantern 
in  his  hand.  Jack,  says  he  to  me,  will  you  knock  out  the 
French  sentries'  brains  ?  I  don 't  care,  says  I,  striving  to 
keep  myself  awake,  if  I  lend  a  hand.  Then  follow  me; 
says  he,  and  I  hope  we  shall  do  business.  So  up  I  got, 
and  tied  my  blanket,  which  was  all  the  clothes  I  had, 


ESSAYS. 


513 


about  my  middle,  and  went  with  him  to  fight  the  French- 
man. I  hate  the  French  because  they  are  all  slaves,  and 
wear  wooden  shoes. 

"  Though  we  had  no  arms,  one  Englishman  is  able  to 
beat  five  Frenchmen  at  any  time ;  so  we  went  down  to  the 
door,  where  both  the  sentries  were  posted,  and,  rushing 
upon  them,  seized  their  arms  in  a  moment,  and  knocked 
them  down.  From  thence,  nine  of  us  ran  together  to  the 
quay,  and  seizing  the  first  boat  we  met,  got  out  of  the  har- 
bor and  put  to  sea.  We  had  not  been  here  three  days 
before  we  were  taken  up  by  the  Dorset  privateer,  who 
were  glad  of  so  many  good  hands;  and  we  consented  to 
run  our  chance.  However,  we  had  not  so  much  good 
luck  as  we  expected.  In  three  days  we  fell  in  with  the 
Pompadour  privateer,  of  forty  guns,  while  we  had  but 
twenty-three ;  so  to  it  we  went,  yard-arm  and  yard-arm. 
The  fight  lasted  for  three  hours,  and  I  verily  believe  we 
should  have  taken  the  Frenchman,  had  we  but  had  some 
more  men  left  behind;  but  unfortunately  we  lost  all  our 
men  just  as  we  were  going  to  get  the  victory. 

"  I  was  once  more  in  the  power  of  the  French,  and  I 
believe  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  ma  had  I  been 
brought  back  to  Brest :  but,  by  good  fortune  we  were  re- 
taken by  the  Viper.  I  had  almost  forgot  to  tell  you  that 
in  that  engagement  I  was  wounded  in  two  places;  I  lost 
four  fingers  of  the  left  hand,  and  my  leg  was  shot  off.  If 
I  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  lost  my  leg  and  use 
of  my  hand  on  board  a  king's  ship,  and  not  aboard  a  pri- 
vateer, I  should  have  been  entitled  to  clothing  and  main- 
tenance during  the  rest  of  my  life ;  but  that  was  not  my 
chance :  one  man  is  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth 


514  ESSAYS. 

and  another  with  a  wooden  ladle.  However,  blessed 
be  God!  I  enjoy  good  health,  and  will  forever  love 
liberty  and  Old  England.  Liberty,  property,  and  Old 
England  forever, —  huzza !  " 

Thus  saying,  he  limped  off,  leaving  me  in  admira- 
tion at  his  intrepidity  and  content ;  nor  could  I  avoid  ac- 
knowledging, that  an  habitual  acquaintance  with  misery, 
serves  better  than  philosophy  to  teach  us  to  despise  it. 


ON  THE  FRAILTY  OF  MAN. 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  THE  ORDINARY    OF   NEWGATE. 

MAN  is  a  most  frail  being-,  incapable  of  directing  his 
steps,  unacquainted  with  what  is  to  happen  in  his  life ; 
and  perhaps  no  man  is  a  more  manifest  instance  of  the 
truth  of  this  maxim,  than  Mr.  The.  Gibber,  just  now 
gone  out  of  the  world.  Such  a  variety  of  turns  of  for- 
tune, yet  such  a  persevering  uniformity  of  conduct,  ap- 
pears in  all  that  happened  in  his  short  span,  that  the 
whole  may  be  looked  upon  as  one  regular  confusion ; 
every  action  of  his  life  was  matter  of  wonder  and  sur- 
prise, and  his  death  was  an  astonishment. 

This  gentleman  was  born  of  creditable  parents,  who 
gave  him  a  very  good  education,  and  a  great  deal  of 
good  learning,  so  that  he  could  read  and  write  before 
he  was  sixteen.  However,  he  early  discovered  an  in- 
clination to  follow  lewd  courses ;  he  refused  to  take  the 
advice  of  his  parents,  and  pursued  the  bent  of  his  incli- 
nation ;  he  played  at  cards  on  the  Sundays,  called  him- 
self a  gentleman,  fell  out  with  his  mother  and  laund- 
ress ;  and,  even  in  these  early  days,  his  father  was  fre- 


ESSAYS.  515 

quently  heard  to  observe,  that  young  THE. —  would  be 
hanged. 

As  he  advanced  in  years,  he  grew  more  fond  of 
pleasure ;  would  eat  an  ortolan  for  dinner,  though  he 
begged  the  guinea  that  bought  it ;  and  was  once  known 
to  give  three  pounds  for  a  plate  of  green  peas,  which 
he  had  collected  over-night  as  charity  for  a  friend  in 
distress  ;  he  ran  into  debt  with  every  body  that  would 
trust  him,  and  none  could  build  a  sconce  better  than 
he ;  so  that,  at  last,  his  creditors  swore  with  one  accord 
that  THE. —  would  be  hanged. 

But,  as  getting  into  debt  by  a  man  who  had  no  visi- 
ble means  but  impudence  for  subsistence,  is  a  thing 
that  every  reader  is  not  acquainted  with,  I  must  ex^ 
plain  that  point  a  little,  and  that  to  his  satisfaction. 

There  are  three  ways  of  getting  into  debt ;  first,  by 
pushing  a  face ;  as  thus,  "  You,  Mr.  Lustring,  send  me 
home  six  yards  of  that  paduasoy,  damme;  —  but  hark- 
'ye,  do  n't  think  I  ever  intend  to  pay  you  for  it  — 
damme."  At  this,  the  mercer  laughs  heartily,  cuts  off 
the  paduasoy  and  sends  it  home ;  nor  is  he,  till  too 
late,  surprised  to  find  the  gentleman  had  said  nothing 
but  truth,  and  kept  his  word. 

The  second  method  of  running  into  debt  is  called 
fineering ;  which  is  getting  goods  made  up  in  such  a 
fashion  as  to  be  unfit  for  every  other  purchaser ;  and, 
if  the  tradesman  refuses  to  give  them  upon  credit,  then 
threaten  to  leave  them  upon  his  hands. 

But  the  third  and  best  method  is  called,  "  Being  the 
good  customer."  The  gentleman  first  buys  some  trifle, 
and  pays  for  it  in  ready  money  ;  he  comes  a  few  days 


516  ESSAYS. 

after  with  nothing  about  him  but  bank  bills,  and  buys, 
we  will  suppose,  a  sixpenny  tweezer-case ;  the  bills  are 
too  great  to  be  changed,  so  he  promises  to  return  punc- 
tually the  day  after,  and  pay  for  what  he  has  bought. 
In  this  promise  he  is  punctual ;  and  this  is  repeated  for 
eight  or  ten  times,  till  his  face  is  well  known,  and  he 
has  got,  at  last,  the  character  of  a  good  customer.  Bj 
this  means  he  gets  credit  for  something  considerable, 
and  then  never  pays  it. 

In  all  this  the  young  man,  who  is  the  unhappy  sub- 
ject of  our  present  reflections,  was  very  expert,  and 
could  face,  fineer,  and  bring  custom  to  a  shop,  with  any 
man  in  England  ;  none  of  his  companions  could  exceed 
him  in  this ;  and  his  companions  at  last  said  that  THE. 
— would  be  hanged. 

As  he  grew  old,  he  grew  never  the  better ;  he  loved 
ortolans  and  green  peas,  as  before ;  he  drank  gravy- 
soup,  when  he  could  get  it,  and  always  thought  his 
oysters  tasted  best  when  he  got  them  for  nothing,  or, 
which  was  just  the  same,  when  he  bought  them  upon 
tick ;  thus  the  old  man  kept  up  the  vices  of  the  youth, 
and  what  he  wanted  in  power  he  made  up  in  inclina- 
tion ;  so  that  all  the  world  thought  that  old  THE. — 
would  be  hanged. 

And  now,  reader,  I  have  brought  him  to  his  last 
scene ;  a  scene  where,  perhaps,  my  duty  should  have 
obliged  me  to  assist.  You  expect,  perhaps  his  dying 
words,  and  the  tender  farewell  of  his  wife  and  children; 
you  expect  an  account  of  his  coffin  and  white  gloves, 
his  pious  ejaculations  and  the  papers  he  left  behind  him. 
In  this  I  cannot  indulge  your  curiosity ;  for,  oh,  the 
mysteries  of  fate  ;  THE.  was  drowned. 


ESSAYS.  517 

"  Reader,"  as  Hervey  saith,  "  pause  and  ponder,  and 
ponder  and  pause ; "  who  knows  what  thy  own  end 
may  be  ? 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 

THERE  are  few  subjects  that  have  been  more  written 
upon  and  less  understood  than  that  of  friendship.  To 
follow  the  dictates  of  some,  this  virtue,  instead  of  be- 
ing the  assauger  of  pain,  becomes  the  source  of  every 
inconvenience.  Such  speculatists,  by  expecting  too 
much  from  friendship,  dissolve  the  connection,  and  by 
drawing  the  bands  too  closely,  at  length  break  them. 
Almost  all  our  romance  and  novel  writers  are  of  this 
kind; 'they  persuade  us  to  friendship,  which  we  find  it 
impossible  to  sustain  to  the  last ;  so  that  this  sweetener 
of  life,  under  proper  regulations;  is,  by  their  means, 
rendered  inaccessible  or  uneasy.  It  is  certain,  the  best 
method  to  cultivate  this  virtue  is  by  letting  it,  in  some 
measure,  make  itself ;  a  similitude  of  minds  of  studies, 
and  even  sometime  a  diversity  of  pursuits,  will  produce 
all  the  pleasures  that  arise  from  it.  The  current  of 
tenderness  widens  as  it  proceeds ;  and  two  men  imper- 
ceptibly find  their  hearts  filled  with  good  nature  for 
each  other,  when  they  were  at  first  only  in  pursuit  of 
mirth  or  relaxation. 

Friendship  is  like  a  debt  of  honor ;  the  moment  it  k 
talked  of,  it  loses  its  real  name,  and  assumes  the  more 
ungrateful  form  of  obligation.  From  hence  we  find  that 
those  who  regularly  undertake  to  cultivate  friendship, 
find  ingratitude  generally  repays  their  endeavors.  That 
41 


518  ESSAYS. 

circle  of  beings,  which  dependance  gathers  round  us,  is 
almost  ever  unfriendly  ;  they  secretly  wish  the  terms  of 
their  connections  more  nearly  equal ;  and,  where  they 
even  have  the  most  virtue,  are  prepared  to  reserve  all 
their  affections  for  their  patron  only  in  the  hour  of  his 
decline.  Increasing  the  obligations  which  are  laid 
upon  such  minds,  only  increases  their  burden  ;  they  feel 
themselves  unable  to  repay  the  immensity  of  their  debt, 
and  their  bankrupt  hearts  are  taught  a  latent  resent- 
ment at  the  hand  that  is  stretched  out  with  offers  of 
service  and  relief. 

Plautinus  was  a  man  who  thought  that  every  good 
was  to  be  brought  from  riches  ;  and,  as  he  was  possessed 
of  great  wealth,  and  had  a  mind  naturally  formed  for 
virtue,  he  resolved  to  gather  a  circle  of  the  be§t  men 
round  him.  Among  the  number  of  his  dependants  was 
Musidorus,  with  a  mind  just  as  fond  of  virtue,  yet  not 
less  proud  than  his  patron.  His  circumstances,  how- 
ever, were  such  as  forced  him  to  stoop  to  the  good  offices 
of  his  superior,  and  he  saw  himself  daily  among  a  nuin- 
ber  of  others  loaded  with  benefits  and  protestations  of 
friendship.  These,  in  the  usual  course  of  the  world, 
he  thought  it  prudent  to  accept ;  but,  while  he  gave  his 
esteem,  he  could  not  give  his  heart.  A  want  of  affec- 
tion breaks  out  in  the  most  trifling  instances,  and  Plau 
tinus  had  skill  enough  to  observe  the  minutest  actions 
of  the  man  he  wished  to  make  his  friend.  In  these  he 
even  found  his  aim  disappointed  ;  Musidorus  claimed  an 
exchange  of  hearts,  which  Plautinus  solicited  by  a 
variety  of  claims,  could  never  think  of  bestowing. 

It  may  be  easily  supposed  that  the  reserve  of  out 


ESSAYS.  519 

poor,  proud  man  was  soon  construed  into  ingratitude ; 
and  such  indeed,  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the 
world,  it  was.  Wherever  Musidorus  appeared,  he  was 
remarked  as  the  ungrateful  man  ;  he  had  accepted  favors, 
it  was  said ;  and  still  had  the  insolence  to  pretend  to 
independence.  The  event,  however,  justified  his  con- 
duct. Plautinus,  by  misplaced  liberality,  at  length  be- 
came poor,  and  it  was  then  that  Musidorus  first  thought 
of  making  a  friend  of  him.  He  flew  to  the  man  of 
fallen  fortune,  with  an  offer  of  all  he  had ;  wrought 
under  his  direction  with  assiduity  ;  and,  by  uniting  their 
talents,  both  were  at  length  placed  in  that  state  of  life 
from  which  one  of  them  had  formerly  fallen. 

To  this  story,  taken  from  modern  life,  I  shall  add 
one  more,  taken  from  a  Greek  writer  of  antiquity :  — 
Two  Jewish  soldiers,  in  the  time  of  Vespasian,  had 
fought  many  campaigns  together,  and  a  participation  of 
danger  at  length  bred  a  union  of  hearts.  They  were 
remarked  through  the  whole  army,  as  the  two  friendly 
brothers  ;  they  felt  and  fought  for  each  other.  Their 
friendship  might  have  continued,  without  interruption, 
till  death,  had  not  the  good  fortune  of  the  one  alarmed 
the  pride  of  the  other,  which  was  in  his  promotion  to 
be  a  centurion  under  the  famous  John,  who  headed  a 
particular  part  of  the  Jewish  malcontents. 

From  this  moment,  their  former  love  was  converted 
into  the  most  inveterate  enmity.  They  attached  them- 
selves to  opposite  factions,  and  sought  each  other's  lives 
in  the  conflict  of  adverse  party.  In  this  manner  they 
continued  for  more  than  two  years,  vowing  mutual  re- 
venge, and  animated  with  an  unconquerable  spirit  of 


520  ESSAYS. 

arersion.  At  length,  however,  that  party  of  the  Jews. 
to  which  the  mean  soldier  belonged,  joining  with  the 
Romans,  it  became  victorious,  and  drove  John  with  all 
his  adherents  into  the  temple.  History  has  given  us 
more  than  one  picture  of  the  dreadful  conflagration  of 
that  superb  edifice.  The  Roman  soldiers  were  gathered 
round  it ;  the  whole  temple  was  in  flames ;  and  thou- 
sands were  seen  amidst  them  within  its  sacred  circuit. 
It  was  in  this  situation  of  things,  that  the  now  success- 
ful soldier  saw  his  former  friend,  upon  the  battlements 
of  the  highest  tower,  looking  round  with  horror,  and 
just  ready  to  be  consumed  with  flames.  All  his  former 
tenderness  now  returned  ;  he  saw  the  man  of  his  bosom 
just  going  to  perish ;  and  unable  to  withstand  the  im- 
pulse, he  ran,  spreading  his  arms,  and  cried  out  to  his 
friend  to  leap  down  from  the  top,  and  find  safety  with 
him.  The  centurion  from  above  heard  and  obeyed ; 
and,  casting  himself  from  the  top  of  the  tower  into  his 
fellow-soldier's  arms,  both  fell  a  sacrifice  on  the  spot; 
one  being  crushed  to  death  by  the  weight  of  his  com- 
panion, and  the  other  dashed  to  pieces  by  the  greatness 
of  his  fall. 


FOLLY  OF  ATTEMPTING  TO  LEARN  WISDOM  IN 
RETIREMENT. 

BOOKS,  while  they  teach  us  to  respect  the  interests  of 
others,  often  make  us  unmindful  of  our  own  ;  while  they 
instruct  the  youthful  reader  to  grasp  at  social  happiness, 
he  grows  miserable  in  detail ;  and,  attentive  to  universal 
harmony,  often  forgets  that  he  himself  has  a  part  to  sus- 


ESSAYS.  521 

tain  in  the  concert.  I  dislike,  therefore,  the  philosopher 
who  describes  the  inconveniences  of  life  in  such  pleasing 
colors,  that  the  pupil  grows  enamored  of  distress,  longs  to 
try  the  charms  of  poverty,  meets  it  without  dread,  nor 
fears  its  inconveniences  till  he  severely  feels  them. 

A  youth  who  has  thus  spent  his  life  among  books,  new 
to  the  world,  and  unacquainted  with  man  but  by  philo- 
sophic information,  may  be  considered  as  a  being  whose 
mind  is  filled  with  the  vulgar  errors  of  the  wise ;  utterly 
unqualified  for  a  journey  through  life,  yet  confident  of 
his  own  skill  in  the  direction,  he  sets  out  with  confidence, 
blunders  on  with  vanity,  and  finds  himself  at  last  un- 
done. 

He  first  has  learned  from  books,  and  then  lays  it  down 
as  a  maxim,  that  all  mankind  are  virtuous  or  vicious  in 
excess :  and  he  has  been  long  taught  to  detest  vice  and 
love  virtue.  Warm,  therefore,  in  attachments,  and  stead- 
fast in  enmity,  he  treats  every  creature  as  a  friend  or  foe ; 
expects  from  those  he  loves  unerring  integrity ;  and  con- 
signs his  enemies  to  the  reproach  of  wanting  every  virtue 
On  this  principle  he  proceeds;  and  here  begin  his  disap' 
pointments :  upon  a  closer  inspection  of  human  nature, 
he  perceives  that  he  should  have  moderated  his  friend- 
ship and  softened  his  severity ;  for  he  often  finds  the  ex- 
cellences of  one  part  of  mankind  clouded  with  vice,  and 
the  faults  of  the  other  brightened  with  virtue;  he  finds 
no  character  so  sanctified  that  has  not  its  failings,  none 
go  infamous  but  has  somewhat  to  attract  our  esteem;  he 
beholds  impiety  in  lawn,  and  fidelity  in  fetters. 

He  now,  therefore,  but  too  late,  perceives  that  his  re- 
gards should  hay?  keen  more  cool,  and  his  hatred  less  vio- 
44* 


522  E83AT8. 

lent ;  that  the  truly  wise  seldom  court  romantic  friend- 
ship WTth  the  good,  and  avoid,  if  possible,  the  resent- 
ment even  of  the  wicked  ;  every  moment  gives  him  fresh 
instances  that  the  bonds  of  f  rendship  are  broken  if  drawn 
too  closely ;  and  that  those  whom  he  has  treated  with 
disrespect,  more  than  retaliate  the  injury ;  at  length, 
therefore,  he  is  obliged  to  confess,  that  he  has  declared 
war  upon  the  vicious  half  of  mankind,  without  being 
able  to  form  an  alliance  among  the  virtuous  to  espouse 
his  quarrel. 

Our  book-taught  philosopher,  however,  is  now  too  far 
advanced  to  recede ;  and  though  poverty  be  the  just 
consequence  of  the  many  enemies  his  conduct  has 
created,  yet  he  is  resolved  to  meet  it  without  shrinking ; 
philosophers  have  described  poverty  in  most  charming 
colors ;  and  even  his  vanity  is  touched  in  thinking  he 
shall  show  the  world  in  himself  one  more  example 
of  patience,  fortitude,  and  resignation ;  "  Come  then,  O 
Poverty !  for  what  is  there  in  thee  dreadful  to  the  wise  ? 
Temperance,  health,  and  frugality  walk  in  thy  train ; 
cheerfulness  and  liberty  are  ever  thy  companions.  Shall 
any  be  ashamed  of  thee  of  whpm  Cincinnatus  was  not 
ashamed  ?  The  running  brook,  the  herbs  of  the  field, 
can  amply  satisfy  nature ;  man  wants  but  little,  nor  that 
little  long.  Come,  then,  O  Poverty  !  while  kings  stand 
by,  and  gaze  with  admiration  at  the  true  philosopher's 
resignation." 

The  goddess  appears ;  for  Poverty  ever  comes  at  the 
call ;  but,  alas !  he  finds  her  by  no  means  the  charming 
figure  books  and  his  own  imagination  had  painted.  As 
when  an  eastern  bride,  whom  her  friends  and  relations 
had  long  described  as  a  model  of  perfection,  pays  her  first 


ESSAYS.  523 

visit,  the  longing  bridegroom  lifts  the  veil  to  see  a  face  he 
had  never  seen  bofore;  but  instead  of  a  countenance 
blazing  with  beauty  like  the  sun,  he  beholds  a  deformity 
shooting  icicles  to  his  heart;  such  appears  Poverty  to 
her  new  entertainer ;  all  the  fabric  of  enthusiasm  is  at 
once  demolished,  and  a  thousand  miseries  rise  upon  its 
ruins;  while  Contempt,  with  pointing  finger,  is  foremost 
in  the  hideous  procession. 

The  poor  man  now  finds  that  he  can  get  no  kings  to 
look  at  him  while  he  is  eating :  he  finds  that  in  proportion 
as  he  grows  poor,  the  world  turns  its  back  upon  him,  and 
gives  him  leave  to  act  the  philosopher  in  all  the  majesty 
of  solitude.  It  might  be  agreeable  enough  to  play  the 
philosopher,  while  we  are  conscious  that  mankind  are 
spectators ;  but  what  signifies  wearing  the  mask  of  sturdy 
contentment,  and  mounting  the  stage  of  restraint,  when 
not  one  creature  will  assist  at  the  exhibition  ?  Thus  is 
he  forsaken  of  men,  while  his  fortitude  waDts  the  satis- 
faction even  of  self-applause ;  for  either  he  does  not  feel 
his  present  calamities,  and  that  is  natural  insensibility; 
or  he  disguises  his  feelings,  and  that  is  dissimulation. 

Spleen  now  begins  to  take  up  the  man;  not  dis- 
tinguishing in  his  resentment,  he  regards  all  mankind 
with  detestation :  and  commencing  man-hater,  seeks  soli- 
tude to  be  at  liberty  to  rail. 

It  has  been  said,  that  he  who  retires  to  solitude  is 
either  a  beast  or  an  angel ;  the  censure  is  too  severe,  and 
the  praise  unmerited ;  the  discontented  being  who  retires 
from  society  is  generally  some  good-natured  man  who> 
has  begun  life  without  experience,  and  knew  not-  bow  to 
gain  it  in  his  intercourse  with  mankind, 


524  ESSAYS. 

LETTER, 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  A   COMMON-COUNCIL-MAN  AT   THE 
TIME  OF  THE  CORONATION. 

Sir —  I  have  the  honor  of  being  a  common-courcil- 
man,  and  am  greatly  pleased  with  a  paragraph  from 
Southampton  in  yours  of  yesterday.  There  we  learn 
that  the  mayor  and  aldermen  of  that  loyal  borough  had 
the  particular  satisfaction  of  celebrating  the  royal  nup- 
tials by  a  magnificent  turtle-feast.  By  tlu's  means  the 
gentlemen  had  the  pleasure  of  filling  their  bellies,  and 
showing  their  loyalty  together.  I  must  confess  it  would 
give  me  pleasure  to  see  some  such  method  of  testifying 
our  loyalty  practised  in  this  metropolis  of  which  I  am  an 
unworthy  member.  Instead  of  presenting  his  majesty 
(God  bless  him)  on  every  occasion  with  our  formal  ad- 
dresses, we  mighc  thus  sit  comfortably  down  to  dinner, 
and  wish  him  prosperity  in  a  sirloin  of  beef;  upon  ou' 
army  levelling  the  walls  of  a  town,  or  besieging  a  fortifi- 
cation, we  might  at  our  city-feast  imitate  our  brave  troops 
and  demolish  the  walls  of  a  venison-pasty,  or  besiege  the 
shell  of  a  turtle,  with  as  great  a  certainty  of  success. 

At  present,  however,  we  have  got  into  a  sort  of  dry, 
Unsocial  manner  of  drawing  up  addresses  upon  every  oc- 
*,asion ;  and  though  I  have  attended  upon  six  cavalcades 
and  two  foot-processions  in  a  single  year,  yet  I  came 
away  as  lean  and  hungry  as  if  I  had  been  a  juryman  at 
the  Old  Bailey.  For  my  part,  Mr.  Printer,  I  do  n't  see 
what  is  got  by  these  processions  and  addresses  except  an 
appetite ;  and  that,  thank  Heaven,  we  all  have  in  a  pretty 
good  degree,  without  ever  leaving  our  own  houses  for  it. 
It  is  true,  our  gowns  of  mazarine  blue,  edged  with  fur,  cut 


ESSAYS.  525 

a  pretty  figure  enough,  parading  it  through  the  streets, 
and  so  my  wife  tells  me.  In  fact,  I  generally  bow  to 
all  my  acquaintances,  when  thus  in  full  dress  ;  but,  alas  ! 
as  the  proverb  has  it,  fine  clothes  never  fill  the  belly. 

But  even  though  all  this  bustling,  parading,  and 
powdering,  through  the  streets,  be  agreeable  enough  to 
many  of  us ;  yet,  I  would  have  my  brethren  consider 
whether  the  frequent  repitition  of  it  be  so  agreeable  to 
our  betters  above.  To  be  introduced  to  court,  to  see 
the  queen,  to  kiss  hands,  to  smile  upon  lords,  to  ogle 
the  ladies,  and  all  the  other  fine  things  there,  may,  I 
grant,  be  a  perfect  show  to  us  that  view  it  but  seldom ; 
but  it  may  be  a  troublesome  business  enough  to  those 
who  are  to  settle  such  ceremonies  as  these  every  day. 
To  use  an  instance  adapted  to  all  our  apprehensions ; 
suppose  my  family  and  I  should  go  to  Bartholomew 
fair.  Very  well,  going  to  Bartholomew  fair,  the  whole 
sight  is  perfect  rapture  to  us,  who  are  only  spectators 
once  and  away ;  but  I  am  of  opinion,  that  the  wire- 
walker  and  fire-eater  find  no  such  great  sport  in  all  this  ; 
I  am  of  opinion  they  had  as  lief  remain  behind  the  cur- 
tain, at  their  own  pastimes,  drinking  beer,  eating 
shrimps,  and  smoking  tobacco. 

Besides,  what  can  we  tell  his  majesty  in  all  we  say 
on  these  occasions,  but  what  he  knows  perfectly  well 
already  ?  I  believe,  if  I  were  to  reckon  up,  I  could  not 
find  above  five  hundred  disaffected  in  the  whole  kingdom ; 
and  here  we  are  every  day  telling  his  majesty  how  loyal 
we  are.  Suppose  the  addresses  of  a  people,  for  in- 
stance, should  run  thus :  — 

"  May  it  please  your  m y,  we  are  many  of  us 

worth  a  hundred  thousand  pounds,  and  are  possessed  of 


526  ESSAYS. 

several  other  inestimable  advantages.  For  the  preser 
vation  of  this  money  and  those  advantages  we  are  chiefly 

indebted  to  your  m y.     We  are,  therefore,  once 

more  assembled,  to  assure  your  m y  of  our  fidelity. 

This,  it  is  true,  we  have  lately  assured  your  m y 

five  or  six  times  ;  but  we  are  willing  once  more  to  re- 
peat what  can't  be  doubted,  and  to  kiss  your  royal  hand, 
and  the  queen's  hand,  and  thus  sincerely  to  convince 
you,  that  we  never  shall  do  any  thing  to  deprive  you  of 
one  loyal  subject,  or  any  one  of  ourselves  of  one  hund- 
red thousand  pounds."  Should  we  not,  upon  reading 
such  an  address,  think  that  people  a  little  silly,  who 
thus  made  such  unmeaning  professions  ?  Excuse  me, 
Mr.  Printer  ;  no  man  upon  earth  hath  a  more  profound 
respect  for  the  abilities  of  the  aldermen  and  common- 
council  than  I ;  but  I  could  wish  they  would  not  take 
up  a  monarch's  time  in  these  good-natured  trifles,  who, 
I  am  told,  seldom  spends  a  moment  in  vain. 

The  example  set  by  the  city  of  London  will  probably 
be  followed  by  every  other  community  in  the  British 
empire.  Thus  we  shall  have  a  new  set  of  addresses 
from  every  little  borough  with  but  four  freemen  and  a 
burgess  ;  day  after  day  shall  we  see  them  come  up  with 
hearts  filled  with  gratitude,  "  laying  the  vows  of  a  loyal 
people  at  the  foot  of  the  throne."  Death  !  Mr.  Printer, 
they  will  hardly  leave  our  courtiers  time  to  scheme  a . 
single  project  for  beating  the  French ;  and  our  enemies 
may  gain  upon  us,  while  we  are  thus  employed  in  telling 
our  governor  how  much  we  intend  to  keep  them  under. 

But  a  people  by  too  frequent  use  of  addresses  may 
by  this  means  come  at  last  to  defeat  the  very  purpose 


ESSAYS.  527 

for  which  they  are  designed.  If  we  are  thus  exclaim- 
ing in  raptures  upon  every  occasion,  we  deprive  our- 
selves of  the  powers  of  flattery,  when  there  may  be  a 
real  necessity.  A  boy  three  weeks  ago  swimming  across 
the  Thames,  was  every  minute  crying  out,  for  his  amuse- 
ment, "  I  've  got  the  cramp,  I  've  got  the  cramp  ;  "  the 
boatmen  pushed  off  once  or  twice,  and  they  found  it 
was  fun  ;  he  soon  after  cried  out  in  earnest,  but  nobody 
believed  him,  and  he  sunk  to  the  bottom. 

In  short,  sir,  I  am  quite  displeased  with  any  unneces* 
sary  cavalcade  whatever.  I 'hope  we  shall  soon  have 
occasion  to  triumph,  and  then  I  shall  be  ready  myself, 
either  to  eat  at  a  turtle -feast  or  to  shout  at  a  bonfire ; 
and  will  either  lend  my  faggot  at  the  fire,  or  flourish 
my  hat  at  every  loyal  health  that  may  be  proposed. 

I  am,  sir,  etc. 


A  SECOND   LETTER. 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  A  COMMON-COUNCIL-MAN,  DESCRIB- 
ING THE  CORONATION. 

SIR, —  I  am  the  same  comrnon-council-man  who 
troubled  you  some  days  ago.  To  whom  can  I  complain 
but  to  you  ?  for  you  have  many  a  dismal  correspondent ; 
in  this  time  of  joy  my  wife  does  not  choose  to  hear  me, 
because,  she  says,  I  'm  always  melancholy  when  she  's 
in  spirits.  I  have  been  to  see  the  coronation,  and  a 
fine  sight  it  was,  as  I  am  told,  to  those  who  had  the 
pleasure  of  being  near  spectators.  The  diamonds,  I  am 
told,  were  as  thick  as  Bristol  stones  in  a  show  glass  ; 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  walked  along,  one  foot  before 
another,  and  threw  their  eyes  about  them,  on  this  aide 


528  ESSAYS. 

and  that,  perfectly  like  clock-work.  O !  Mr.  Printer, 
it  had  been  a  fine  sight  indeed,  if  there  was  but  a  little 
more  eating. 

Instead  of  that,  there  we  sat,  penned  up  in  our 
scaffolding,  like  sheep  upon  a  market-day  in  Smithfield  ; 
but  the  devil  a  thing  I  could  get  to  eat  (God  pardon 
me  for  swearing)  except  the  fragments  of  a  plum-cake, 
that  was  all  squeezed  into  crumbs  in  my  wife's  pocket, 
as  she  came  through  the  crowd.  You  must  know,  sir, 
that  in  order  to  do  the  thing  genteelly,  and  that  all  my 
family  might  be  amused  afthe  same  time,  my  wife,  my 
•daughter,  and  I,  took  two-guinea  places  for  the  corona- 
tion, and  I  gave  my  two  eldest  boys  (who,  by  the  by, 
are  twins,  fine  children)  eighteen-pence  a-piece  to  go  to 
Sudrick  fair,  to  see  the  court  of  the  black  King  of 
Morocco,which  will  serve  to  please  children  well  enough. 

That  we  might  have  good  places  on  the  scaffolding, 
my  wife  insisted  upon  going  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing before  the  coronation,  for  she  said  she  woul^d  not 
lose  a  full  prospect  for  the  world.  This  resolution,  I 
own,  shocked  me.  ''Grizzle,"  said  I  to  her,  " Grizzle, 
my  dear,  consider  that  you  are  but  weakly,  always 
ailing,  and  will  never  bear  sitting  all  night  upon  the 
scaffolding.  You  remember  what  a  cold  you  got  the 
last  fast-day  by  rising  but  half  an  hour  before  your 
time  to  go  to  church,  and  how  I  was  scolded  as  the 
cause  of  it.  Besides,  my  dear,  our  daughter  Anna 
Amelia  Whilhelmina  Carolina  will  look  like  a  perfect 
t'right  if  she  sits  up ;  and  you  know  the  girl's  face  is 
something  at  her  time  of  life,  considering  her  fortune 
is  but  small."  u  Mr.  Grogan,"  replied  my  wife,  "  Mr. 
Grogau,  this  is  always  the  case,  when  you  find  me 


ESSAYS.  529 

in  spirits;  I  do  n't  want  to  go,  not  I,  nor  I  do  n't  fcare 
whether  I  go  at  all ;  it  is  seldom  that  I  am  in  spirits,  but 
this  is  always  the  case."  In  short,  Mr.  Printer,  what  will 
you  have  on 't  ?  to  the  coronation  we  went. 

What  difficulties  we  had  in  getting  a  coach;  how  we 
were  shoved  about  in  the  mob ;  how  I  had  my  pocket 
picked  of  the  last  new  almanac,  and  my  steel  tobacco- 
box;  how  my  daughter  lost  half  an  eye-brow,  and  her 
laced  shoo  in  a  gutter;  my  wife's  lamentation  upon  this, 
with  the  adventures  of  a  crumbled  plum-cake;  relate  all 
these ;  we  suffered  this  and  ten  times  more  before  we  got 
to  our  places. 

At  last,  however,  we  were  seated.  My  wife  is  certain- 
ly a  heart  of  oak ;  I  thought  sitting  up  in  the  damp  night- 
air  would  have  killed  her ;  I  have  known  her  for  two 
months  take  possession  of  our  easy  chair,  mobbed  up  in 
flannel  night-caps,  and  trembling  at  a  breath  of  air ;  but 
she  now  bore  the  night  as  merrily  as  if  she  had  sat  up  at 
a  christening.  My  daughter  and  she  did  not  seem  to 
value  it  a  farthing.  She  told  me  two  or  three  stories 
that  she  knows  will  always  make  me  laugh,  and  my 
daughter  sung  me  "  the  noon-tide  air,"  towards  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  However,  with  all  their  endeavors,  I 
was  as  cold  and  as  dismal  as  ever  I  remember.  If  this 
be  the  pleasures  of  a  c.oronation,  cried  I  to  myself,  I  had 
rather  see  the  court  of  King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  at 
my  ease  in  Bartholomew  fair. 

Towards  morning,  sleep  began  to  come  fast  upon  me  ; 

and  the  sun  rising  and  warming  the  air,  still  inclined  me 

to  rest  a  little.    You  must  know,  sir,  that  f  am  naturally 

of  a  sleepy  constitution;    I  have  often  sat  up  at  a  table 

45 


530  ESSAYS. 

with  my  eyes  open,  and  have  been  asleep  all  the  while. 
What  will  you  have  on  't  ?  just  about  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning  I  fell  asleep.  I  fell  into  the  most  pleas- 
ing dream  in  the  world.  I  shall  never  forget  it ;  I 
dreamed  that  I  was  at  my  lord-mayor's  feast,  and  had 
scaled  the  crust  of  a  venison-pasty ;  I  kept  eating  and 
eating,  in  my  sleep,  and  thought  I  could  never  have 
enough.  After  some  time,  the  pasty,  methought,  was 
taken  away,  and  the  dessert  was  brought  in  its  room. 
Thought  I  to  myself,  if  I  have  not  got  enough  of  veni- 
son, I  am  resolved  to  make  it  up  by  the  largest  snap  at 
the  sweet-meats.  Accordingly  I  grasped  a  whole  pyra- 
mid ;  the  rest  of  the  guests  seeing  me  with  so  much,  one 
gave  me  a  snap,  the  other  gave  me  a  snap  ;  I  was  pulled 
this  way  by  my  neighbor  on  my  right  hand,  and  that 
way  by  my  neighbor  on  the  left,  but  still  kept  my 
ground  without  flinching,  and  continued  eating  and 
pocketing  as  fast  as  I  could.  I  never  was  so  pulled 
and  handled  in  my  whole  life.  At  length,  however, 
going  to  smell  to  a  lobster  that  lay  before  me,  me- 
thought it  caught  me  with  its  claws  fast  by  the  nose. 
The  pain  I  felt  upon  this  occasion  is  inexpressible ;  in 
fact,  it  broke  my  dream ;  when  awaking  I  found  my 
wife  and  daughter  applying  a  smelling-bottle  to  my  nose, 
and  telling  me  it  was  time  to  go  home ;  they  assured 
me  every  means  had  been  tried-to  awake  me,  while  the 
procession  was  going  forward,  but  that  I  still  continued 
to  sleep  till  the  whole  ceremony  was  over.  Mr.  Printer, 
this  is  a  hard  case,  and  as  I  read  your  most  ingenious 
work,  it  will  be  some  comfort,  when  I  see  this  inserted, 

to  find  that 1  write  for  it  too. 

I  am,  sir,  Your  distressed  humble  servant, 

L.  GKOGXN. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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8  Al 


REC'D  LD 


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